Manhunter
by The Die Hard
Summary: The Martian Manhunter comes to check up on young Clark, and learns a thing or two himself.


Manhunter  
  
Disclaimer: everybody here is owned by DC Comics and the Smallville people. No attempts to make any profits or nothing. Entertainment purposes only. No sue.  
  
Rated G. No sex, not much language, a little violence, some green rocks.  
  
Timeline: early in the second season, pre-Rosetta, post-Duplicity. No spoilers, unless you really don't know who Kal-El is and what happened to Krypton.  
  
Apologies for the slightly confusing mixed script / story style. That's just the way the characters talked to me on this one. It confused me, too.  
  
For those not as up on their History of the DC Universe as they should be, J'onn J'onzz, a.k.a. John Jones -- as well as a few dozen other disguises, including a stray cat -- is the Martian Manhunter, an alien lawgiver and detective by vocation, a shapeshifter and telepath by birth, and an expert at both by dint of long practice, who also has vision powers, strength, and invulnerability in the Kryptonian class, though not quite up to even the young Kal-El's -- er, Clark's -- standards. But J'onzz has both professional training and great experience on his side. And his race is older than man. We don't even know how long his species lives....  
  
Long shot, establishing: bus coming into town, past "Meteor Capitol of the World" sign.  
  
A closeup, the passengers, including our guest star for the week: a tall and strongly built man (his size and strength will be important later on; it's for more than just characterization) of mixed-race appearance, accent on Native American features, with a pleasant appearance of calm confidence. The camera's lingering focus establishes him as obviously a Good Guy.  
  
The bus pulls into Smallville Station, not fancy, but clearly well-used and maintained. (NOTE: a train and railroad station could be substituted for the bus, if the props are more readily available. The point is to emphasize that there are modes of transit besides cars and planes. In fact, the bus should have a sign on its side advertising its alternative fuel, possibly hydrogen cells or used vegetable oil. "This bus runs on your leftovers!" The train would similarly sport a brightly-decorated, obviously-unused smokestack, and an advert to the effect that the rail line has converted to electro-magneto-propulsion or some such.  
  
Is this going to be a "politically-correct" episode? You bet your green meteor rocks it is.)  
  
Our Good Guy passenger pauses beside the bus driver, a traveling satchel slung over his shoulder, and asks the driver for a recommendation about grabbing a bite to eat. The bus driver points to the Smallville General Store with an ad-lib about sandwiches and sodas. The Good Guy thanks the bus driver with a friendly grin and tips him. (Remember, we are later going to find out that our Good Guy is a bizarre-looking alien, so it is important to get the audience in a sympathetic mood with him. That Politically Correct thing, you know.)  
  
(Here we also establish the first outward indication of our Good Guy's telepathic abilities as he gives a mental prompt to the bus driver, or ticket taker, or whatever, that he should Have A Good Day. A short unique music signature and a slight change of expression on the part of both the Good Guy visitor and the recipient -- who would suddenly look more relaxed, or happier -- should do it. If you want to add a visual effect like a glitter in the eyes or change in color, well, just don't be tacky about it. Martian Manhunter ain't Freak of the Week.)  
  
Our Good Guy visitor (we would call him "Strange Visitor," but that moniker has already been taken in the DC Universe) enters a store with a thriving population (more employment for extras) of people shopping for supplies and exchanging gossip, mostly about work or the weather, things important to a working community. (There had better be at least one woman wearing overalls and carrying a sack of feed or shopping for tools. No green meteor rocks for you unless we get some blatant political correctness in practically every other scene.)   
  
Jonathan Kent is among those, at the counter, looking mildly exasperated. (As usual.)  
  
Jonathan: "But that's almost twice what it was last summer!"  
  
Man at counter: "Sorry, Jonathan, but what can you do? You know how hard the drought hit the whole area. And then the storms. And with the price of gas, transport costs are up too."  
  
Jonathan: "They're pricing us all right out of business, and then who do they expect to buy anything at all? When we go under, they'll go down along with us!"  
  
Man at counter: "I've told the suppliers that. Not much else I can do. That Lex Luthor even went to talk to them, too, but they seem to have drawn their own line in the sand."  
  
Jonathan looks disgusted at the mention of Lex doing something good. Man at counter shakes his head and turns to the visitor for a distraction. "Can I help you -- " very slight hesitation, taking in the traveling bag and, all too obviously, the skin color -- "Sir?"  
  
Visitor: "Just passing through, thanks. Thought I could grab a bite to eat, maybe talk to a few people about the area. Get a feel for this part of the country."  
  
Man at counter: "Got plenty of fresh veggies and home-baked bread. Kinda short on meat these days. What do you want to know about the area?"  
  
Visitor, with just a hint of a smile that says, I'm not quite what I seem: "That's fine. I'm a vegetarian. About the area, I'm kind of interested in those meteors you advertise."  
  
Jonathan, of course, reacts suspiciously at the reference to the meteors. The man at the counter doesn't notice, or if he does, puts it down to the typical Kent family strangeness, and waves the visitor off to a stack of bins. "Help yourself."  
  
Jonathan turns back to the clerk, resignedly: "Okay, put me down for two tons. I'll send Clark around to pick it up after I go see what I can get out of the bank."  
  
The visitor, selecting produce, gives Jonathan a penetrating look. He's a highly trained and very skillful telepath -- he doesn't need to stare to search through what Jonathan is thinking.. More like he's evaluating what he's picking up, and considering what to do about it next.  
  
Man at counter, resignedly: "Oh, Jonathan, I know you'll be good for it." (Obviously knowing that he knows no such thing.) "Go ahead and pick it up. Save yourself a trip."  
  
The visitor returns to the counter with a big filled sack and pays from a thick wad of bills, establishing that this is not a person worried about money. "Much appreciated. You have good crops here." Very casually, to Jonathan: "Can you use a hand loading that?"  
  
Jonathan looks tired. Clark could do it in a few seconds, of course, but he can't wave off help by admitting that. "I guess so. Thanks." He offers his hand. "I'm Jonathan Kent."  
  
Visitor shakes his hand, again with that not-quite-what-I-seem smile: "John Jones."  
  
Outside, loading sacks into the truck, Jones pulls one of Clark's stunts -- lightly picking up two sacks for Jonathan's one. Catching a fast frown from Kent, Jones returns the look innocently -- he's succeeded in his intention of planting the first of many small clues in Jonathan's head -- and from then on at least makes it look like he's exerting an effort to pick up two sacks. (Jonathan Kent is not a small man, it's important that John Jones be noticeably bigger. Guys can read any kind of alpha-male competitiveness into that they want to.)  
  
Jonathan, carefully: "So, are you a geologist? What's your interest in the meteors?"  
  
Jones, with a slight smile, as if he'd planted the opening gambit in Kent's mind (with music signature): "Not just the meteors. I'm interested in what's happened to the people in a town where such an extraordinary event happened. You're not just a Roswell tourist trap, here."  
  
References to UFOs are something the Kents would rather avoid. Jonathan winces and looks momentarily alarmed, covers it with hearty cynicism. "You're not one of those who believe there was a, well," dismissively -- "a flying saucer hiding in those meteors, do you?"  
  
Jones compresses his lips, in that not-quite-what-I-seem smile. We should get the idea that he already knows all about it, but is going along with the game. Jones has the same kind of charisma that young Clark unconsciously projects, the self-assurance of his own power, only more mature. "I've never belonged to any UFO cults, if that's what you're asking. No, I'm what you might call a researcher, a student of people. Maybe I'll write a book some day, about the back-roads places I've been. Like a modern-day Jack Kerouac."  
  
"Oh." Jonathan is still cautious, but the explanation is plausible and harmless enough. "Well, we're still pretty much your plain old ordinary small town. Of course, anyone could tell you that sometimes a few strange things happen around here, but actually, I think you'd find that's true just about anywhere. Seems like nothing in the world is plain and simple anymore." Wistfully. "Even without the meteors, it's not like the old days, not even here."  
  
Jones pauses, giving Jonathan another, and more direct, straightforward evaluating look. "I would imagine that you've seen a great deal in your life that's not plain and simple."  
  
Jonathan reacts predictably, defensively, suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
Jones is being serious now, though, man-to-man forthright, not playing games with secret knowledge. "At your age, I would guess that you've seen war close up and personal."  
  
Jonathan is successfully distracted from his concern over keeping Clark's secrets into his own unpleasant memories -- insert a momentary flashback scene of a group of young men in army fighting garb under combat conditions. No need to see their faces to understand that Jonathan was one of them. He withdraws into himself a little, but actually seems more open and vulnerable in that moment. "Well. Yeah. You're right. That ? wasn't simple. Maybe the world never was as plain and ordinary as we like to remember."  
  
Jones flashes a sad, sympathetic grin. "We tend to try to forget the bad things. Maybe that's why we keep repeating our mistakes. We forget how bad it was the last time around."  
  
Jonathan has relaxed now into accepting the stranger as being on his side. Partly, of course, he's also been receiving a few subtle telepathic nudges. "You've been there too, I guess."  
  
"Oh yes." It's Jones' turn to look unpleasantly introspective. He did, after all, live through a genocide -- the death of his own family and practically his whole species. "I've been there." Recovering, and pushing away the memories: "Would you like a hand unloading that?"  
  
Kent just barely manages to repress a frustrated sigh. No, of course he doesn't want any strangers witnessing Clark's super-speed assistance with the chores, but he can't exactly turn down help that anyone else would obviously need. He tries an excuse to discourage Jones: "You may have noticed in there that I can't exactly afford to pay for any help right now."  
  
Politically Correct scene: Jones gives Kent a look that lets him know that he should be embarrassed at assuming that Jones is asking for work. Kent has the grace to look a little abashed about what he said -- prodded, of course, by a telepathic suggestion (music here).  
  
Jones smiles then. "I'm not looking for a job, Jonathan. I've saved enough to be able to afford this sabbatical, to take off and knock around for awhile. In fact, I could pay you room and board if you might have some extra space out around the farm, because I think I'd like to hang around this town for a little while. See, what I'm after can't be bought with money."  
  
Jonathan steels himself. Just what he doesn't need, someone hanging around the farm. On the other hand, Clark manages to keep his secrets while at school without too much trouble, and a little extra money couldn't hurt?. "What exactly is it you're looking for, then?"  
  
"Experience." A gesture here, taking in the town, the land around, and not coincidentally, the sky. "Like I said, maybe I'll write a book. If not, I'll still have learned a little more about?." (Big major triple-entendre, hit-over-the-head pause here) "?My fellow man."  
  
A moment of telepathic music and expressions, then Jonathan chuckles. "Oh, why not. Hop in." With his inhibitions released, Jonathan becomes quite talkative. "Actually, you know, I've always wanted to go do that sort of thing, that hitch around and look for America?."  
  
Scene change cut, to the truck pulling up to the bank. As Jonathan gets out, he's already treating Jones as a new friend, even a confidante over his financial situation, as shown by his resigned wink and a wry "Wish me luck." We don't need to follow Jonathan into the bank for any details of his latest negotiations for yet another loan. Instead, we stay in the truck with the Manhunter, who smiles slightly and gets a distant expression as he focuses inside, both visually (in full color, unlike Clark's x-ray vision, but still a through-the-wall effect) and telepathically. The bank president's suddenly pleased expression and friendly handshake -- somewhat to Jonathan's startlement -- assures us that all will be well with Kent's request.  
  
Scene shift: the truck pulling up to the Kent farm. Pete and Clark are shooting baskets, and pause to be introduced to Jones. Pete's reaction is a wide grin and a vigorous "Great to meet you!" Pete is characteristically an outgoing sort, but his quick bonding with Jones is that of someone who instinctively recognizes a kindred spirit. Jones' eyes widen and, for just a split second -- change, indefinably. The hand touch has given him far more access to Pete's thoughts than he was prepared for, as if Pete were an incipient projecting telepath himself. (Hmm...) Or maybe it's just the force of the kid's ebullient personality. But a quick flicker of emotions across Jones' face -- surprise, mingled pleasure and a little worry --tells us that he knows that Pete knows about Clark. And that he realizes that not only is Pete not bothered (much) that his best friend comes from another planet, not only is Pete being protective of Clark and his "difference," but is self-confident enough to engage in sports with him.  
  
The Martian Manhunter is impressed. Pete's friendship is an unexpected good sign.  
  
Clark, naturally, is more cautious, especially at his father's heavily-loaded revelation that Jones "will be staying here a few days." But Jones meets Clark's eyes as they shake hands, with quiet telepathic background music, and the look lasts just long enough for us to realize that Jones is here for the explicit purpose of meeting Clark.  
  
Next day: Smallville High, exterior establishing, then interior, students milling around from one class to another. The halls should NOT be crowded. This is SMALLville, right?  
  
Like all too many schools, in big cities and small towns alike, Smallville is unfortunate enough to have a bad science teacher. A good teacher energizes even uninterested students. A bad teacher discourages even good students. Mr. Banes is one of the chief culprits of scientific illiteracy in the country, along with talk radio and corporate-controlled "junk news" media, a bad science teacher. To be fair, he's adequate at science -- just a bad teacher.  
  
Mr. Banes has, as usual, forgotten to tell the students what the day's assignment is going to be. Clark and Pete and Chloe and Lana establish this by ad-libbing about which class they're on their way to, while in the hallway. Lana: "Were we supposed to have a science test this week? What's it on?" Clark: "Who knows? If Mr. Banes was any more absent-minded, he'd forget to come to class." Pete: "So how come he never forgets to assign homework?" Chloe: "It's genetically programmed into them. They'd remember to assign homework even if they forgot their own name. Or what planet they were on, for that matter."  
  
The students cram noisily into the classroom, as students from kindergarten to sophomore year in college all do (by junior year in college, most students are too exhausted to be noisy any more). Clark and Pete both sit near the back, a habit they established long ago, since both are gifted with excellent vision (if Clark weren't solar powered, Pete would be the hardier one) and so don't need to get close to the blackboard (everyone who had to wear glasses at an early age knows about this), and neither wants to attract the teacher's attention (each for different reasons). Today that habitual choice is a darn good thing for Clark.  
  
Mr. Banes, absent-mindedly sorting through his notes, finds what he's looking for. "Oh, yes. I received some interesting information from Star Labs on the chemical analyses of those meteor rocks. Today we're going to do some experiments on some specimens I've gathered." And he opens a steel cabinet door, revealing a tray of the green things, glowing ominously.  
  
Quick close-ups: Lana looks bored, which tells us all we need to know about what her SAT scores are going to be. (Yes, this is another required politically correct scene. Girls who don't pay attention in science class are an insult to the human race in general, and to other women in particular, and they tend to do other stupid things that are bad for us all, like vote republican. Behave and promise to learn your science, unlike Lana, or we won't get around to poor Clark sitting there five meters from at least a kilogram of his exploded home planet.)  
  
Chloe is at least professionally curious, trying to figure out if this will be material useful for an article someday, and therefore worth taking notes about. A good reporter -- stress that, a GOOD reporter, not a press release retypist just passing on the official spin -- researches background, collects facts, and fits together pieces that might otherwise seem unrelated. Which is why it's so unbelievable that neither Chloe nor her cousin Lois, both competent researchers, took so long to figure out that weird things ALWAYS happen around Clark.  
  
Pete has time to frown, puzzled at something he's not quite sure of, before memory kicks in, then his eyes widen in shock as he remembers. He's only known about Clark's differences for less than a school year, so his reaction isn't as automatically ingrained as Jonathan and Martha's would be, but he's personally seen the green rocks reduce Clark from superhuman to stark helplessness in the space of a few seconds. Pete's glance over at Clark is panicked.  
  
Clark, as we might expect, is pushed back in his chair as far as he can get, a momentarily uncontrollable expression of pure horror turning him ashen-green. His obvious effort to suppress his involuntary initial emotional reaction -- and he is manifestly struggling to control his consternation and fear -- is still unable to do much about concealing the outward signs of the poisonous radiation's terrible physical toll on his body, as his vitality crumples under the onslaught of enervation and the growing sick agony creeping through him. He's far enough away from the lethal range that he doesn't quite keel over -- yet -- but that's small consolation at this point, especially considering the trap he's in, a dilemma he's still (barely) capable of taking into account. If he gets up and leaves right now, there will be unpleasant questions, but if he doesn't, it won't be too much longer before getting up and walking out normally is beyond his capability. And if he collapses there in his chair, or someone notices his increasing distress and incapacitation, there will be even more unpleasant questions.  
  
Cut to: Jones, doing something around the farm. His head snaps up at the telepathic alarm (the music chimes in suddenly with a strident note, and his image is overlaid by a double exposure, hazy at first but clearing as he psychically locks onto it, in a seeing-through-walls type visual). The super-imposed "mental picture" gives us a fast flash of Pete's emotions -- a momentary close-up on Pete's worried face, and his frustrated agitation at being unable to help -- then his perceptions, the scene turning to see through his eyes, to the view of Clark beside him, in torment and desperately fighting a losing battle not to give himself away.   
  
Jones turns up the power on his mental link, concentrating on Clark (we see it as closing in on both Jones' and Clark's faces, two separate images overlapping and merging, then Jones' picture fades as the focus on Clark becomes dominant ... Clark's face also "grays out" around the edges, turning indistinct and wavery, like the tunnel effect you'd see if you were near to losing consciousness from injury or blood loss). Through Clark's failing vision (centering on Clark's eyes, glazed from the gut-twisting shock and glassy with pain) Jones sees a spinning green blur of the classroom, familiar faces distorted into threatening visages by vertigo.  
  
Jones can fly and turn invisible, but he can not teleport. (Teleporters are rare at DC.) When he vanishes, he should be seen leaping upward, to establish that he's moving fast, but not violating any other laws of physics. (We've caused Stephen Hawking enough discontent already.) A Martian exclamation here ("H'ronmeer!") tells us that Jones is dismayed enough at Clark's predicament to break character cover, and also satisfies the politically correct requirement for this scene. (Let's see the network censors object to THAT one.)  
  
Jones reappears in an alcove at the school and immediately transforms into school principal Reynolds, another Good Guy. (We don't want anyone thinking that the school principal himself can suddenly materialize out of thin air. High school students are paranoid enough.)  
  
In the classroom, Clark is rapidly losing the ability to care what anyone else thinks as the cell-deep destruction accumulates in him. He'd been hoping that the teacher would put the deadly rocks back in the cabinet, because no way could he sit through even this remote level of exposure for the entire class, but that hope seems increasingly futile. Better go ahead and get out while he can -- if he can -- and worry about questions later. But his effort to rise is aborted when his arms and knees refuse to take his weight, and he falls back with a strangled gasp. The attempt clearly costs him strength he does not have. New fear flickers through the wave of nausea and corrosive anguish lining his face -- too late to escape already?   
  
In the background, the teacher's droning unconcerned voice can be heard over Clark's ragged choked breaths, but the other students are starting to shoot dangerously curious looks in his direction. Pete is torn between grabbing Clark and running out, or maybe screaming and jumping out the window as a diversion -- clearly Pete's trustworthiness and steadfast loyalty to his old friend are no longer in question, but he just doesn't know what to do. He whispers "Hang on, buddy, I'll think of something," or some such, ad lib, and stands up, prepared to make a spectacle of himself in order to protect Clark's secret and get him to safety somehow.   
  
Clark manages a faint protest, to the effect of "Pete, you don't have to," but he also has enough presence of mind left to gratefully acknowledge Pete's willingness to sacrifice his own dignity for Clark's sake. The look of appreciation isn't easy to make through suffering akin to the world's worst toilet-hugging hangover, but Clark being Clark, he manages.  
  
The door opens and Jones, disguised as the principal, gives everyone in the room a severe principal-type look. "Excuse me." Fixing his eyes on Pete, since he's already standing, which helpfully gives Jones an excuse not to single out Clark: "Mr. Ross? Mr. Kent? I'd like a word with you both, please. Now." Pete starts to protest, as any student would when The Man Comes To Get You, but Clark just sits there, slumped and unresponsive in seeming defiance. Actually, of course, he's too weak to make it to his feet, much less walk, and his uncooperatively vague expression is only a thinly held blank mask for the debilitation he's trying so hard not to show, especially now that the principal has turned everyone's attention in his direction. It's hard for him to look rebellious when he can barely raise his eyes.  
  
Jones steps forward and drags Clark upward with what looks like an unfriendly hand on the shoulder (a good thing Reynolds is also tall) and holds him there (the fact that he's holding Clark UP, rather than just in place, might occur to an acute observer, from the angle of his arm, but only if they also knew that he was strong enough to so effortlessly lift Clark's full weight) with a ferocious scowl, which he also favors upon Pete. It's too late for the telepath to keep anyone from noticing that something is very wrong with Clark, without directly and blatantly pushing their minds around, which he is sworn by both culture and profession not to do, but being a shapeshifter, Jones is also a superb actor and a master of misdirection.  
  
Clark barely notices that, or anything else, by now -- the sudden forced change in position, like motion sickness, has emptied him of what little hold on stability that he had left -- but poor Pete doesn't know whether to fight or flee. All he can think of is that he and Clark are in serious trouble over something, though it can't be any worse than the spot Clark is in right now. Pete moves with stiff-backed meekness (Pete's glance at Jones-as-Reynolds sets new records for teen-age anxiety) to Clark's other side, and supports him as unobtrusively as possible, with a muttered "Come on, buddy." Jones-as-principal marches them both out the door, also disguising his aid to the stumbling semi-conscious Clark between them as a hard grip on Clark's upper arm, which normally would be classified as prosecutable student abuse.  
  
Once beyond a wall that provides some shielding from the nasty meteors, Jones / Reynolds releases Clark to sag almost bonelessly on Pete's solid pillaring -- and sternly warns, "Wait for me in my office, please." But when he turns back toward the classroom door and away from them, in the moment where only we can see his face, and neither the students in the classroom nor Pete and Clark are watching, he allows himself a broad conspiratorial grin.  
  
Scene shift: After a few staggering steps, out of sight of the classroom door (and more importantly, out of the inverse-square range of the far-gamma rays produced by pieces of a giant planet that's been nuked from its core -- like phosphorus, the green light is a secondary effect), Clark shifts his weight off Pete and leans against a row of lockers, eyes closed, to regain his equilibrium and catch his breath. Softly: "Thanks, Pete. I owe you a big one."  
  
Pete agrees. "That was close. But actually, I think you have to owe the principal." Pete frowns and looks apprehensive at that idea. "Wonder what he's caught us at now?"  
  
Clark nods and looks slightly worried too, still shaky and unwell but recovering enough to be concerned with such ordinary things. "Yeah. Out of the frying pan, into the fire."  
  
Pete chuckles. "At least it's the kind of fire we're both in together." His friendly punch causes Clark to wince a little, but when Pete looks alarmed at Clark's reaction, Clark makes a sort-of punch back at Pete in reassurance. They both sigh. "Time to face the warden."  
  
Scene: Back to Jones-as-principal, who has turned his scowl upon the science teacher. "Mr. Banes, I do trust you know that your collection of meteor samples there are radioactive?"  
  
The absent-minded teacher blinks uncomprehendingly. "Well, of course, but?."  
  
Jones interrupts severely. "I do not see any of the required safety precautions in this room, or in this school, for that matter, for handling radioactive materials. I expect a full report from you on why you allowed such a potentially hazardous substance to be brought into a classroom without appropriate protective measures, and what steps you intend to take to ensure that the material is properly secured. If such an incident happens again, I will be forced to take up your conduct with the state authorities. I will not have my school -- or my students (very authoritarian glare here) -- put at risk because of your carelessness."  
  
A few plaintive protests from Mr. Banes that the meteor rocks aren't dangerous. Insert a cut to Chloe snickering and rolling her eyes, with a sarcastic comment about her Wall of Weird.  
  
Jones continues, severely: "Mr. Banes, our safety regulations and pertinent procedures are usually established for good reason. I trust you will comply with them in the future." The teacher nods nervously, and Jones inclines his head and shuts the door -- then allows himself another broad grin. On one side of the door, the students, who have just seen a teacher reduced to chastised student-hood, struggle hard not to break out in appreciative mirth. On the other, Jones, with a look around to make sure Clark and Pete are gone, vanishes.  
  
Scene: Clark and Pete approach the principal's office with some trepidation, and if Clark is still a little unsteady (and Pete still watching him with a little more concern than would be considered normal between high school guys), their attitude when facing the door is identical -- kids steeling themselves for at least a reprimand -- and the look they exchange is the same.  
  
Inside the principal's office, however, Reynolds is sitting behind his desk with no hint of any scowl or punishment in mind. Jones, in his major disguise for the episode, is lounging in a visitor's chair (as opposed to the student's chair). Reynolds looks up, more amiably than not, and raises his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Ah, just the young men we were speaking of. Fortuitous timing. We shall discuss whatever prompted your guilty consciences to bring you here, just now, on some more private occasion." (Clark and Pete blink in matching astonishment at the men, as much at the principal's words as at the fact that he's somehow gotten here and settled in ahead of them.) "Mr. Kent, I understand John Jones here is a friend of your family?" As an aside, to Jones: "Of course they would both show up together. If I didn't know better, I'd think Kent and Ross were twins, instead of simply cohorts."  
  
Whatever Clark and Pete were braced for, this throws them completely. They only reinforce the principal's observation of their cohort-ness with their identical goggling at the two men.  
  
Clark: "Um, yeah, he's staying with us while he's ? in town. Visiting."  
  
Principal: "Indeed. Mr. Jones has asked permission to speak with some of the students here about the town. He also has some interesting stories and experiences to relate, which might prove edifying to you young people." (Yes, Reynolds does talk like that. Live with it.)  
  
Pete: "Uh, yeah, he's, kind of, a writer. Or researcher. Something."  
  
Reynolds: "Very well. So long as it does not interrupt classes, Mr. Jones, the boys may escort you wherever you wish on the premises, within reason. I'll notify the instructors." He peers at Pete and Clark in abrupt realization. "Shouldn't you two be in class right now?"  
  
Jones smiles, and the telepathic music slips in, aimed first at the principal, whose intent scrutiny of the two boys relaxes again, then at Pete and Clark, who in total confusion are about to say something that will spill the beans. The boys close their gaping mouths. Clark, maybe sensitized by his recent close call, suddenly seems aware of something going on beyond the reach of even his superior senses. He turns to Jones with a curious expression.  
  
Clark: "Yes, sir. Sure, no problem. Um, come on, Mr. Jones, we'll show you around."  
  
Pete, sotto voce: "Man, I think we just used up all our luck for the rest of the year."  
  
Out in the hallway, Clark and Pete glance at each other and back at the principal's office with twin what-just-happened-here? expressions. Jones appears not to notice, looking around at the school's walls. (Politically correct side note: there had better be plainly visible sprinklers and fire alarms on the ceiling. Schools should be as safe and well maintained as homes are. Being in school is a right, whether kids enjoy it or not. It should never be a burden, much less a hazard. Subjecting children to dangerous conditions in schools is unforgivable.)  
  
Clark: "So, um, what would you like to?." He trails off, and Pete finishes: "? Check out?" Both hesitate, clearly thinking (matching worried glances back in the direction of the science classroom, and then at each other): what if he asks to go back to the science room?  
  
Jones gives them both an amused look. It hardly takes telepathy to read their nervousness. "I shouldn't just barge in on your classes. Do you have a break hour? Lunch?"  
  
Clark, all too obviously relieved: "Oh, sure. Actually, next class would be a great time to visit Chloe. She's the editor of the school newspaper, and she gets time out for that. It's just typing and computer stuff we all already know. We can skip that, no problem "  
  
Pete, sotto voce: "Yeah, just hope she hasn't picked up a 'souvenir' from science class for her next article." Clark freezes for a step -- he hadn't thought of that -- alarmed revulsion naked on his face for a second before he can stifle it. He swallows, hard. Chloe could very easily have done that. In fact, Pete knows, she's done it before, with the red meteor rock specimen.   
  
Pete clears his throat and gives Clark a look that says, let me take point on this one, just in case. "You wanna stop by our lockers and drop these off, buddy?" Tosses Clark his books. "Meet you there." His natural ebullience comes to his assistance, as he resorts to a typical teenage boy distraction: "I'll let you know if she's -- " broad wink -- "occupied."  
  
Clark matches his grin with equal parts thankfulness and boyish embarrassment, and turns towards the lockers. Jones, who of course has missed nothing in the impromptu but fairly effective coverup teamwork, is hard put to conceal his own thoroughly amused admiration.  
  
Scene: Chloe's office, Jones and Pete entering, just as the bell rings and students begin pouring by. A few people call greetings to Pete, ad libs of current events, establishing Jones' presence now as just another visitor at school. Chloe rushes in and throws her books at the desk in her haste to get to her beloved computer, nearly bowling Pete over before she notices him. "Oh, hi, Pete. Where's Clark? Who's your friend? I can't believe we just sat through an entire class on those stupid meteor rocks. So the rocks aren't all rocks, or all metals, or whatever. So what? Next we'll be digging up landfills looking for fossilized dolls as proof of ancient civilizations. You're not going to believe what I've been hearing from my trucker friend about LexCorp. That fertilizer plant? Seems they're storing unauthorized materials there. Come on, you stupid computer, how long does it take to do one lousy search? Argh!"  
  
Pete, exchanging looks of silent laughter with Jones: "Um, Chloe, if you'll come out of warp drive for one second? This is Mr. Jones. He's staying with the Kents for a few days while he does some research on the area. Including those 'stupid meteor rocks' you just dissed. He wanted to talk to some students, too. You might even show him your Wall of Weird."  
  
Chloe snaps onto the word "research" like a trout on a fly. "Research? So, are you a scientist, Mr. Jones? Oh, where are my manners?" Stands and offers her hand. Jones takes it, meeting her eyes, and something passes between them (hint of telepathic music) that makes Chloe stand up straighter and look suddenly more mature, more self-possessed.  
  
Jones: "More like an observer, Ms. Sullivan. Just gathering experiences, you might say. I'm toying with the idea of writing a novel some day, though writing isn't my strong suit. I'm more of a verbal storyteller, a student and analyst of people, than an investigative reporter."  
  
Clark appears in the doorway behind them, hovering reluctantly in the background, waiting for Pete to give him the all-clear. Pete, Chloe, and Jones all turn to him at the same time. Pete gives a "come on in, it's safe" jerk of the head. Jones compresses that secretive smile.  
  
Chloe: "There you are. Honestly, Clark, you're so slow it's a wonder you're not on permanent detention. What happened with the principal? And what was wrong with you back in class? You looked like you were about to throw up or pass out or something."  
  
Clark forces an innocent look, but there's enough evasiveness in it to get Chloe's attention. She frowns. Pete steps in to the rescue: "The principal just wanted us to take Mr. Jones around. Clark had to stop at the, uh, you know. Must have been something he ate."  
  
Chloe, suspiciously: "Not out of Mrs. Kent's kitchen, he didn't." She shrugs. "The school food, on the other hand?. Well, let's just say I've seen rats leave it untouched."  
  
Jones turns to her, eyes curiously alight, as if with a plan. "I'll grant you that it's not gourmet, Ms. Sullivan, but surely you realize that there are places in the world where your school lunches would be considered better nourishment than anything else they'd ever had."  
  
Chloe, in typical teenage dismissiveness: "Oh, right, children are starving in Ethiopia or wherever. I've been hearing that since I was, like, gagging on baby food. They can have it. In fact, instead of bombs, let's drop school lunches on Iraq. They'd surrender in a week."  
  
Jones catches her eyes again, holds them. "Surely you don't believe problems of supply and distribution -- or of population and politics, for that matter -- are that simple."  
  
Chloe gets that distant, more thoughtful look again, as if mesmerized. "Well, no, but?."  
  
Jones, still holding her gaze: "Have you ever wanted to investigate it yourself, first hand?"  
  
Chloe's whole face lights up, as if someone had just opened a door in her mind. "Yes!"  
  
Jones, more casually now, as he withdraws the mental probe: "Have you considered, oh, learning another language or two? Think what an advantage you'd have, if you were, say, reporting on some international negotiations at the U.N., and you could speak to the representatives involved in their own language, instead of relying on an interpreter."  
  
Chloe is as stunned as if someone had just handed her the story of the year, no strings attached. Metropolis is suddenly no longer her benchmark of success. "The ? U.N.??"  
  
Jones is well satisfied with the wheels he's set in motion. We begin to understand that his purpose here is not just to check on Clark. "Now, what about that wall of weird?"  
  
For a moment Chloe does not even seem to realize anyone else is there, much less talking to her. Her eyes are far away, on a prize she had not dared to dream before. "The U.N....."  
  
Scene: End of the school day, students thundering down the stairs and scattering onto the sidewalk, Pete and Clark among them. Jones is waiting at the school entrance, head slightly to one side, watching the youngsters with appreciation. This is his adopted world, after all -- he's encouraged to see so many promising future citizens, and so few apparent lost causes.  
  
Pete, continuing a conversation from class: "I dunno, Clark. I mean, aren't all politicians just in it for the power? What has politics ever actually done for the rest of us?"  
  
Clark, thinking hard: "Well, there's the highway systems, the Centers for Disease Control.... Clean water, and food and safety regulations.... Kennedy got us to go to the moon...."  
  
Pete, with an argumentative wave of the hand: "And Viet Nam, and government corruption that gave us the Savings and Loans scandals and media mergers, and oil company subsidies, and tax giveaways for the rich, and selling off family businesses to corporate fat cats." Pete has a personal grudge against the Luthors there, and shows it with a particularly disgusted expression. "And we went to the moon almost half a century ago, Clark. What have we done since? The only scientific progress has been in video games! Not that I have anything against video games, but where's our cure for cancer and diabetes and AIDS? Where's our anti-gravity? When are we going to get spaceships like ... uh ... Hello, Mr. Jones."  
  
Jones folds his arms, reveling in this latest opportunity to probe the social consciences of both boys, especially Clark's. He is, after all, a law enforcer, and a lawless Clark would be unfathomably dangerous. "Hello, boys. Interesting conversation -- I didn't think you young ones paid much attention to such things. Is it only scientific progress you're interested in? Or have you considered that social and psychological maturity may be equally important?"  
  
Pete and Clark raise eyebrows at each other. "Well, we did just come from civics class."  
  
Jones aims a considering look at both boys. "Ah. Do they still teach the Constitution in its entirety, or is it now just that watered-down collection of platitudes politically approved by whoever is in power? Do they get a dozen words past "We the people," to the part about establishing justice? Do they teach you that the Declaration of Independence is actually a blueprint for revolution, or do they just feed you the "unalienable rights" phrase to justify their own selfish agenda? 'We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal....' Do you believe that, either one of you? Are you two, for example, created equal?"  
  
This is our big politically-correct laugh for the scene: a Martian disguised as an American Indian asking a short dark-skinned boy and a tall blue-eyed Kryptonian to defend the idea that they're "created equal." Pete and Clark should milk this exchange for everything they've got, since of course neither one of them know that Jones is deliberately pulling their chain.  
  
Clark, as uncomfortable as it's possible for him to be: "Um ... Pete's the natural athlete." (Except, of course, for the minor matter of which one can leap tall buildings at 500 kph....)  
  
Pete, even more embarrassed, covering for Clark: "And Clark's ... uh ... better at math."  
  
Jones can barely keep himself from collapsing in laughter and giving the whole game away. Instead, he gives them the full force of his stare, power and experience that neither boy will ever be able to match, even by the time Superman and President Ross are his good friends. "Do you truly think the framers of the Constitution had any such trivial matters in mind?"  
  
Both boys have the good sense to look apologetic. "Well, no." "Of course not."  
  
Jones, now in lecture mode, but with the hint of intensity and accompanying telepathic music that makes him such an engaging lecturer: "No, of course not. What was vitally important to them was equal treatment under the law. They knew, from their own personal experience, that a society unjustly divided by class -- one set of laws for the royalty, and totally different treatment for those without money and power -- becomes disastrous for both in the long run. The privileged classes' freedom to flaunt the law simply made their most criminal abusers even worse. And such obvious inequality only made the oppressed more discontented. People who are discontented are dangerous, both to the rulers and to themselves. Desperate people do desperate things. Revolutions become inevitable -- but never without bloodshed and long painful consequences. That's why people rise up in violence only as a last resort."  
  
Clark and Pete's reaction might be best described as confused. They have the idea that they ought to be bored, but Jones' intensity makes that impossible. Both, in fact, show signs that they are having seeds planted in their minds, as Jones did with Chloe, that will grow into the roots and backbone of the legends we'll come to know. People need a rock-bottom reason to make sacrifices, after all, and more will be asked of these two than anyone else in the world.  
  
Jones, however, does not need his mother's precognitive talent to know how vital it is to strengthen a moral conscience in Clark to match the planet-cracking power his body will mature into. "For men laboring under scientific and sociological misconceptions that a small child today would find both amazing and repulsive, to whom communications consisted of hard-to-make ink on expensive paper scratched by candle light and delivered hand to hand, the framers of your Constitution were some of the most brilliant men who ever lived. Never forget that. Every tin-pot, one-horse dictator in history has had a flag and a rallying cry. But the Constitution of the United States is unique. Like the code of Hammurabi, it's one of the crowning achievements of humankind. It marks a turning point in the evolution of humanity. It is your heritage, your most precious possession, the one force which separates you from the rule of tyranny. Guard it with your lives, and treat any who would discount it as invaders bent on enslaving you." Since we have to kick some people in the teeth to make the point here, Jones glares especially at Clark. "ALL of you. Do not count on your advantages to protect you. Slavery of the mind is worse than any iron chain, and far harder to break."  
  
Clark and Pete are torn between typical teenager boredom with what sounds all too much like school, and fascination with the way Jones can present things -- his passion, his depth and breadth and wealth of experience that good teachers can use to draw in even the most unwilling student. You can almost see the light bulbs starting to dimly glow in their heads.  
  
Pete: "You mean, like, the Bill of Rights?"  
  
Clark: "Isn't that just the first ten amendments?"  
  
Pete, for once a little disappointed in his friend: "Don't forget the fifteenth."  
  
(Go look it up. Think of it as a commercial break.)  
  
Jones, severely enough that we know this is something he takes VERY seriously: "Yes. The argument is often made as to whether the Constitution is a "living" document or a rigid one. Some of the phrasing may be either simplistic or confusing to people today -- but that does not mean it should be ignored, ever. You may be tempted to apply the context of their times, but never forget that they knew what they were talking about. When they said NO religion should ever have official sanction, they meant exactly that: NO religion. When they said "well regulated," they meant what they said, and a two-hour gun safety class does not equal regulation. When they declared that anyone accused of a crime had the right to a public trial, and to confront their accusers, and to have the assistance of counsel, it was because they had seen for themselves how the power to act in secrecy corrupts even the best of men -- and they knew from experience that those who seek to act in secrecy are not the best of men."  
  
Pete and Clark are drawn into comparing this "big picture," presented so differently than a school lecture, with their own personal experiences. They're getting a little overwhelmed, though. "You -- make it all sound so right-here-and-now." "Yeah, like you've been there."  
  
Jones is in his element, and delighted with his audience. "What sounds like history to you is still a fresh memory to your parents, and newfangled hard-to-believe future shock to your grandparents." He claps a hand on each of their shoulders, quite obviously more heavily on Clark than on Pete -- and Clark, in that moment of contact (since Jones is strong enough that Clark can actually feel the impact, as he doesn't from anyone else any more), gets a hint that the several-hundred-year-old Martian is rather more than a wandering middle-aged man. His sharp look at Jones is also full of dawning wonder. "Learn your history, and not just from books. Listen to those who have been there. Hear their stories. Santayana was an optimist -- it is not failing to remember the past that condemns us to repeat our mistakes, but failing to believe that we could ever have been so foolish in the first place." Jones' changeable eyes darken perceptibly. "Even Sinclair Lewis was too much the optimist. No one ever believes the worst can happen, until too late. But it can always happen, to any of us, if we ever forget why we're here -- and what evils can dissemble behind the most innocent of appearances."  
  
This is not just heavy foreshadowing. Clark, especially, needs to reminded that he is not the first one to ever take up the fight for truth and justice, even if he is the first bullet-proof one.  
  
Jones, telepathically sensitive to the overload he's subjected them to, grins and gives them a break. "So why are we here? Is there some place to get a decent hot cuppa around here?"  
  
Clark and Pete take a moment to switch gears. "Uh? Oh, yeah. The Talon. We were headed there now, in fact. It's, kinda, a hanging-out place. It's Lana's big success story."  
  
Jones lifts an eyebrow. "Really? Sounds great." Makes a show of checking his watch. "I almost forgot, I have to pick up a few things. I'll meet you there in a few minutes." He waves and heads around the nearest corner, followed by Pete's and Clark's puzzled looks -- and once out of sight, leans against the wall in silent pleased-with-himself laughter. He is, of course, still keeping tabs on the two telepathically, and wanted to see what they would say out of his "ear"shot, but he was also afraid he couldn't keep a straight face much longer. J'onn J'onzz, veteran of galactic disasters, hasn't had this much plain easy fun in decades.  
  
Scene shift back to Clark and Pete (who is either quicker on the uptake or more suspicious), caught up in a sudden odd realization: "Did something about all that sound strange?"  
  
Clark, his own thoughts occupied with ideas he hadn't much considered before: "Like what?'  
  
Pete, still frowning after Jones: "The way he kept saying 'your' Constitution, 'your' history."  
  
Clark, still distracted by personal concepts, and not catching it: "What's strange about that?"  
  
Pete, mildly exasperated: "Come on, Clark, doesn't he live in this country too?"  
  
Scene: approaching the Talon, Clark and Pete and Jones entering. Plenty of students are there already, including Lana, also just arriving and heading over to her station behind the counter. Clark and Pete, Jones trailing, make their way over to a place in front of her.  
  
Clark, as usual, has a goofy expression over Lana. Pete takes over introductions for Jones.  
  
Lana, putting down a tray to shake hands: "Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones. Clark, you okay? You looked so awful in science class, I thought you were going to have to go to the hospital with appendicitis or something. And then I didn't see you for the rest of the day."  
  
Clark hoods his eyes behind expressionlessness for a second -- a good thing that's ALL they thought. "Um, just something I ate." A glance at Pete in thanks for providing that excuse, which probably would not have occurred to Clark. "The principal wanted us to show Mr. Jones around. Pete and I were giving him a tour when we had time out from class."  
  
Lana: "Oh. Well, I'm glad you're okay. Excuse me a minute, I have customers waiting."  
  
Pete and Clark lean over the counter seeking a soda, while Jones looks consideringly off after her. He frowns slightly -- something about Lana doesn't sit right with him.  
  
Clark, of course, is smiling dreamily after Lana. Pete, permanently suspicious of x-ray vision after the red-rock episode, waves his hand in front of Clark's eyes, just to make sure.  
  
Jones, still looking in Lana's direction, catches it telepathically, and his eyes light up again with inspiration. Turning back to Pete and Clark: "So, your girlfriend runs this place?"  
  
Clark, immediately boy-defensive: "She's not my girlfriend. We're just ... neighbors."  
  
Jones and Pete give him identical "yeah, right" sardonic looks. Lana comes back behind the counter as Jones continues: "Quite a responsibility, for a high school student." Turning to her: "Was this your idea, Lana? Planning to make a career of finding business niches?"  
  
Lana is flustered -- Jones is taking a whole different approach to her than he did with Chloe. As we've seen, Lana has to be pushed in order to pay attention to ANYthing -- Lex did her more of a favor than even he realized by forcing her to justify her fantasies. Jones, with the advantage of knowing of her intellectual laziness directly, knows even better where to push.  
  
Lana, uncertainly: "Well, the Talon does all right. Even Lex says so. And I, well, have kind of an attachment to the place. But to do this for the rest of my life?" She looks around, suddenly troubled. "I don't know. Probably not. I mean ... shouldn't there be more to life?"  
  
We can sneak a peek at Clark's face here, also suddenly troubled -- he's pretty sure that "more to life" means he's going to be faced with far more serious problems in the wider world some day, even if he doesn't have any ambitions of wearing skin-tight costumes yet.   
  
But Pete is the main focus of this scene, as the earlier mental seed pushes its way up into the first sprout. His face and posture shift subtly but definitively, becoming more assertive, more confident and adult, similar to Chloe's, when Jones gave her ambitions new wings. Something has gone "click!" in his head -- the idea that there really can be more to life.  
  
Even the first taste of his own new dreams, however, doesn't stop him from needling the "super-popular" Lana in one of her very few vulnerable moments. Almost slyly: "More to life, as in Metropolis? Bright lights in the big city? You already work for the Luthors, Lana. Planning on moving up in the world with Lex? Becoming a corporate bigwig?"  
  
Lana shoots him a poisonous look, but Jones deftly redirects the conversation and drags them all over to a different footing. Mildly, as befits someone who has fought interplanetary wars: "Why stop at Metropolis, Pete? You were the one saying that politicians never did anything" -- Jones all but winks -- "for 'the rest of you.' Well, you're one of 'the rest of you.' Who better than you to step up to the plate and show 'the rest of them' how it should be done?"  
  
Pete's eyes get the same faraway look that Chloe's did as his ambitions take hold. "You mean, go into politics? I bet I could run for mayor, yeah.... Or maybe even congressman?"  
  
Jones raises an eyebrow. "For starters. It's usually recommended that you have some prior experience before you start dealing with other world leaders from the Oval Office."  
  
Pete's eyes do not, quite, bug out. But Jones has lasered through the years of dark doubts and "you can't do thats" that had been piled over his buried talents, and shown bright daylight on his most secret and impossible dream, as he did Chloe's (well, he IS a master telepath), and Pete is momentarily incapable of paying attention to anything else. Like any gifted but as-yet unchallenged individual, raising the bar only makes him more determined to surpass it.  
  
Jones manages not to burst out laughing only by hiding his face in a coffee cup. Really, his only purpose for this small-town visit was to make sure that Clark was not getting out of hand and becoming a threat to everyone around him -- and the Manhunter was not looking forward to having to confront even an adolescent Clark, much less being forced to take drastic measures against him -- and instead, not only does Clark appear to be doing just fine (for a teenager, anyway), but he has also, almost by accident, managed to turn Clark's friends on their heads. In fact, the only one who hasn't had a major revelation yet is Clark himself.  
  
Clark, by now, is definitely getting the impression that something is going on that he doesn't know about, which is a new and not entirely welcome experience for him. His look from Pete to Jones is bemused -- and maybe, just a little, touch resentful, under the mild facade.  
  
Lana smiles in her vapid way. "Wow. Pete Ross for President. It has a nice ring to it."  
  
Jones suddenly remembers his earlier unrewarding scan of Lana, and his amusement fades. He puts down the cup and meets her eyes, serious again. "And what about you, miss Lang? Running a small business is an honorable and necessary profession. Not just your country, but your society, your civilization, depends on the efforts, and the use of the full range of aptitudes, of each individual. But if it's not your forte" (the word is pronounced FORT, not "fortay" -- forte with the accented "e" is strictly a musical term), "Then you are wasting your capabilities -- and depriving your society of the contributions that you could be making."  
  
Lana, defensively: "I like working at the Talon. Helping to run it. It's my place."  
  
Telepathic music here, and maybe even the glowing-eye effect:: "Is it the feeling of belonging that holds you here? Or is it simply because this is the easiest thing to do?" With steel in his voice: "Have you ever asked yourself if, perhaps, you tend to take the path of least resistance because you feel entitled to? Some people respond to tragedy or pain by walling themselves off, because they believe they have already made all the sacrifices they should ever be asked to. But shielding yourself from growth is not living, miss Lang. It's stagnation. When a culture, or a person, stops accepting change, then they lose their ability to cope with the real world. They become easy prey. Or they become less than sane."  
  
Clark is turning from bemused to belligerent at what he perceives as an attack on "his" girl. "Hey, that's over the line. And it's not fair to Lana. You don't know what she's -- "  
  
Jones swings on him, hand raised to silence him. There's no obvious threat in his demeanor, but the shock of being faced down like that stops Clark as if he'd run straight into a green rock. He has not, after all, ever been physically intimidated, for as long as he can remember.  
  
Jones, quietly: "I do know. And I know of far worse. You will see it yourself some day, Clark, and I fear sooner rather than later. Children not much older than you have been broken by things they were forced to do -- things they believed they had to do. There are men your father's age who still scream at the sound of thunder. And yet there are men like your father who went through the same circle of Hell and can still smile, love, dream. This is a hard choice, Clark -- Lana -- but it is a choice, and one you must make while you still have the chance to make it. Choose to face the fear, and the pain, and the burdens, and all the terrible and awesome complexities of a world where there are no simple answers. Or choose the easy way out, the simple solution, and live the happy unconcerned life of a fondly cared-for pet." Jones turns back to Lana, almost glaring. "Choose to let it be someone else's problem, and to let someone else think for you, and to stay safe in your own comfort. You will never have to worry over decisions, or take an unpopular stand, or live with grief. But you will be someone else's pet, little more than their willing slave. Is that what you want?"  
  
It may or may not have gotten through to Lana, who looks resentful -- she's a self-centered brat, after all -- but Clark is shaken, stunned. The word "responsibility" hasn't just gained new meaning, it's clouted him over the head. In the space of one day, he's seen two of his friends aimed at exalted new visions, one kicked out of her rut, and been browbeaten into insights than not even x-ray vision would ever have given him. It would have been a long day even without the ten million years spent in proximity to those damn glowing rocks.  
  
Clark puts down his soda and just stands there looking at nothing for a minute, a little blank -- and, more, unhappily alone. It's something he feels all too often, but now in a whole new different way. Responsibility is a heavy weight to put on a kid, even one who can lift cars.   
  
Pete, whose face is still beaming in private contemplation of himself waving to cheering crowds from the steps of Air Force One, notices that not everyone in the room is such a happy camper. He nudges Clark, with an exuberant "Hey, lighten up!" But getting no response, he sobers and resolutely shakes off his own fantasies in concern for his friend. "Clark?" Lowering his voice: "You okay? It's not the you-know-what, is it?"  
  
"Uhm?" Pete's anxiety finally penetrates Clark's preoccupation. "Oh, no, I'm -- it's fine. Just ... thinking." To himself: "I never even asked my dad about all those other things...."  
  
Someone hails Lana and she moves off, but not without another scowl at Jones. Jones returns her look coolly and finishes his coffee. Prom queens don't much interest him, and Lana has a long way to go before she'll be worth the same amount of his time as Clark and Pete and Chloe. And Lex. Jones looks troubled again at that thought. Clark, his major interest, doesn't seem like he's going to be a problem after all. But he hadn't counted on finding such a threat to humanity buried in the mind of a young corporate heir. (Which just goes to prove that even J'onzz is not as well informed as he ought to be, if he hasn't been keeping up with the crimes against humanity committed by CEOs for the past century.)  
  
Clark pulls himself out of his dark reverie and finishes his soda with a forced cheerful smile. "We'd better be getting home. I have chores -- " and with a waggle of his eyebrows and a canary-eating grin -- "and Pete has math homework, if he's going to run for President."  
  
Pete hits him in the arm, hard, just barely remembering to check his punch in time to keep from breaking his own hand. "And you didn't do so great in sci -- ah -- civics, either."  
  
Only his sheer weight of experience keeps Jones from collapsing on the floor in hilarity. Still, his eyes are very bright as he gazes at the two boys. What a team they make -- and what a team they WILL make! "Sounds good to me. All life is, after all, best spent in learning." He puts a couple of bills on the counter. "And Lana -- this is a nice place."  
  
Lana goggles at him, not exactly having been expecting a compliment. Then, finally, she looks thoughtful, maybe beginning to understand that she was being tested, just a little.  
  
Scene: Clark and Jones wave farewell to Pete as he goes off his separate way. Clark, hesitating -- he usually runs home from here: "I guess I could call my dad to pick us up."  
  
Jones smiles at him in a mentorish way: "Why bother your dad? You're a healthy young man, and it's only a few miles or so." Jones hesitates, and we catch just a flicker of worry -- and, maybe, so does Clark -- as he scans Clark to make sure he's not still weakened. Jones relaxes, relieved. "Why don't we jog it? A little exercise isn't going to hurt either of us."  
  
Clark starts to demur -- what if he forgets himself? -- then looks puzzled. "That's right, you didn't drive here, did you? You mean you walked all the way, just to come visit the school?"  
  
Jones, shrugging, mildly: "It's a nice day, a pleasant countryside for sightseeing. I figured your father could do without me for a couple of hours while I went wandering around."  
  
Clark accepts that at face value, with that I-give-up sideways twist of the lips and eyebrow shrug of his that makes him so expressive. "Okay.... Well...." A sudden grin: "Why not?"  
  
Jones laughs and stretches out into a smooth, swinging stride, the distance-eating gait of an experienced runner. Clark's face lights up at the semi-challenge, and he catches Jones easily -- then gets a surprised look as Jones picks up the pace, taking advantage of his longer legs and better-trained muscles. Clark's grin widens as he reaches for just a touch of his extra abilities, holding himself back to Jones' speed, no more, but no less. Jones favors him with a good-natured competitor's dare, and as they hit the fields, moves the level up another notch.  
  
By this time we're tracking them in slow motion, wind blowing past, since to any observers they'd be moving at about racing bicycle speed -- nowhere near either of their limits, but way beyond anyone else's (excepting those with ties to the speed force, of course, like Barry Allen or Wally West). Clark is too caught up in the fun of the moment, of being able to let go, even though not really cutting loose, to notice that they just broke a few world records.  
  
They reach the Kent house at the same time and slide to a stop in a cloud of dust -- for either of them to bounce off the wall would require major repairs to the wall -- and stand laughing at the mild exertion for a few seconds. Jonathan comes around the corner just then, looking from one to the other in puzzled consternation. "Oh, there you are, John. Wondered where you'd gone off to." Turning to his alien adopted son, in a severe whisper: "Clark, what....?"  
  
Clark is pinkly flushed, as much from enjoyment as from the run, and you can't help but be infected by his delight. "It's okay, dad. Mr. Jones and I just ran back from the Talon, is all."  
  
Jonathan, in a knife-edged mutter: "You RAN...?" Catching himself -- "Well, I hope you didn't wear yourself out too much. You still have chores to do before dinner." Turning to Jones, politeness personified: "I hope you'll forgive my son his exuberance. He usually has better manners. And would you join us for dinner? We have plenty of fresh vegetables, and Martha's made a cobbler." Clark wrinkles his nose at the mention of vegetables, earning a stern look from Jonathan. "Mr. Jones is a vegetarian. I respect that, and you should too."  
  
Clark looks abashed. Jones raises an eyebrow mildly. "There are plenty of reasons to refuse to eat other animals, son. Health is only one of them. But it's an individual choice. I choose to step lightly on the land, and to take no more than I need. You may find that that appeals to you, too, someday." To Jonathan: "And I would be honored to join your family, sir."  
  
Clark raises his eyes skyward -- adults! -- but heads off to take care of his responsibilities. Jones and Jonathan exchange amusement of their own. "We were both teenagers once, too," Jones offers, understandingly. Jonathan nods, but his expression is a little distant, a little sad -- they, or at least he, was never a teenager like Clark. "Yeah. A long time ago."  
  
Scene change: after dinner, Clark and Jonathan sitting at the table -- Clark with homework, Jonathan with paperwork, which pretty much amount to the same thing (get used to doing homework, kids, you're going to have it for the rest of your lives, and some of it will have far more drastic consequences than a failing grade); Jones and Martha clearing up the dishes. Yes, this is a required politically correct scene. Males are not green-rock allergic to dishes.  
  
Jones, drying a big pan and handing it to Martha to put away: "Now I know why your crops do so well. They all aspire to become ingredients in one of of your excellent creations."  
  
Martha, blushing: "You're a flatterer, Mr. Jones. You'll make some woman very happy."  
  
Jones looks away for a moment. Gently: "I had a wife and daughter, Mrs. Kent. They...." How do you explain that your own brother unleashed a plague that killed nearly everyone?  
  
Martha, guessing at least part of what he was going to say, is mortified. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to ... It was supposed to be ... I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."  
  
Jonathan and Clark both look up curiously at Jones, and not just to avoid their paperwork. Jones shrugs. "You didn't know. And it was ... a long time ago." (And a planet away.)  
  
Martha accepts another plate from Jones. Carefully and sympathetically, as befits the Kent family, with their wild range of experiences: "And you've never ... found anyone else?"  
  
Jones smiles at her. "Not that I could ... really relate to." Well, actually, he has, but she was queen of the offshoot Martian slave race whose people were at war with his, and promised to someone else in order to stop the war ... it's a little complicated for Smallville dinnertime.  
  
Martha and Jonathan exchange knowing sad looks -- both of them have had dismal occasion to wonder how they would make it without the other. Jones catches a high-speed flashback of some of the moments when one or the other has been in grave peril, and turns away, eyes closed, as he works hard to put his mental barriers back up to full strength. He had made a bad mistake in relaxing around these people he likes so much. The depth and power of their emotions is far more dangerous to his necessary control than any deliberate enemy attack.  
  
Clark is the only one not distracted by shared memories (not to mention that ANYTHING is a good excuse for avoiding homework for another minute). A small puzzled frown crosses his features at seeing Jones' reaction, then is as quickly schooled away. Clark closes his eyes too, debating with himself. He has his own code about not prying with his unusual abilities, but there have been so many oddities today.... Then he makes up his mind and opens them again, with the curious focus of x-ray vision, aimed at Jones. We do not need to see what he sees. (For one thing, the shapeshifter doesn't have bones as we would think of them, and how would you visualize that?) We only see his face go blank with disbelieving shock.  
  
Jones, of course, catches it. He turns to Clark, with a small secretive smile. Clark gulps.  
  
Jones continues his turn, back to Martha. "I believe I have discovered why this country is called the heartland." With a blatant look at Clark "You have made a stranger feel more welcome than I would have believed possible." Jones spent years trying to understand human subtlety -- a telepathic species has no such word. "May I excuse myself for the evening? I can help with the chores tomorrow, if Clark needs to catch up on his homework."  
  
Jonathan does his best not to roll his eyes. Martha hides a grin. Clark is the only one who has an inkling that Jones is saying way, way more than just that, and that there is something more than just a little unusual about their guest -- and not just because of the day at school.  
  
Clark is also, if he has any sense, scared. He does not, after all, know that it was Jones who rescued him from science class, or that Jones is already privy to everything. He only knows that their visitor is hiding something. And considering how much he's hiding himself, he can be excused (for now, anyway), for being paranoid about mysterious people in his home.  
  
Scene: Jones walking away from the house, out under the stars. He throws his arms out and his head back in longing, in pleasure, in supplication, in satisfaction, in silent laughter. Any hero knows the feeling. So does any stranger in a strange land. So does any good teacher.  
  
Scene shift: back to the kitchen in the Kent house, Martha joining Jonathan and Clark at the table with warm fuzzy looks at each other. But Clark is still staring out the door after Jones' departure, and frowning uncertainly. He shakes his head once, doubting the evidence of his own senses, then leans back in his chair and puts his head in his hand, as if it's beginning to weigh too much. Jonathan gives him a glance of gentle humor. "Homework that bad, son?"  
  
Clark shakes his head again, still propped on his hand. "No, it's just --- " He scowls, not wanting to admit to his x-ray invasion of privacy, and not sure he can explain even to himself what he thinks he saw. "It's been a crazy day. Mr. Jones came to school today to talk to us, and now Pete thinks he's going to be President and Chloe wants to become an international spy or something and Lana.... Some of it's a little hazy after the meteor rocks in science class, but it's like he just dragged all of us into this whole new level of thinking about what we're doing, you know? Even me." To himself, "Especially me." Realizing that he sounds egotistical, and embarrassed: "I mean, he just made me think about things I'd never realized before. History, and wars, and rights.... I just hadn't realized how complicated it all was."  
  
Martha and Jonathan mostly miss that revelation of Clark's new maturity, having gone force-five in consternation at his mention of the meteor rocks, even as casually as he glossed over it. "Good lord, Clark, are you all right? You didn't even mention that when you came home -- I shouldn't have asked you to go do -- you were running, I didn't realize you'd been -- "  
  
Clark holds up his hands in smiling surrender. "Mom. Dad, I'm fine. It was only for a few minutes." A twitch of his lips, self-deprecating. "It only just seemed like forever. Anyway, Principal Reynolds came and called Pete and me out of class about right then, and we weren't even in trouble. Turned out he just wanted us to show Mr. Jones around the school." Clark suddenly looks confused again. "That's another weird thing. The principal got back to his office before we did, even though he was behind us. And I wasn't out of it for all that long. But he was there when I was pretty much gone -- I think he practically picked me up, he must have, or maybe it was Pete -- and he didn't even say anything afterward. And then he acted like -- I can't remember exactly, but like he didn't know why we were there. And then Mr. Jones -- " Some of the pieces start to add up in Clark's head then -- he does, after all, have extraordinarily good synapses -- and his expression drifts off into blank vagueness, not feigned this time, as his still-untrained mind tries to go into Sherlock Holmes mode.  
  
Martha and Jonathan, not having nearly as many pieces of the puzzle, don't realize that he's just preoccupied, and not wandering off into cuckoo-land. They exchange worried glances. Well, a superhuman teenager in the house is as good an excuse for getting gray hairs as any. Soothingly: "Son? Is something wrong? You sure you're, uh, completely recovered?"  
  
"Hm?" Clark looks up at them then, refocusing, and there's a new look in his eyes -- more determined, more ... adult. "Yes, I'm sure there's nothing affecting me. And ... yes, there's something wrong." Deep breath, steeling himself for an expected lecture: "Dad -- mom -- Mr. Jones isn't exactly what he seems to be. I don't know what he is -- but I'm absolutely certain that he's hiding something. Not just about the strange things that have happened." Clark lowers his eyes in confession. "I -- looked at him. He's not -- he's not human."  
  
Jonathan and Martha exchange looks again (more gray hairs). "Son, that's a pretty strong thing to say -- but it's not necessarily a bad thing, is it?" Both of them reach over to take his hands in theirs, smiling intimately into his eyes, making their meaning as clear as their love and support. "You're the one who always says to believe the best about people. Even Lex Luthor. Maybe we should give John Jones the same benefit of the doubt?" At this point, it's a wasted effort to shake fingers over invading other people's privacy. "Maybe ... maybe he really is just what he says he is, no matter where he comes from -- somebody wandering around the country just for the fun of it, stopping by to learn more about -- other people."  
  
Clark holds onto their hands -- carefully, carefully -- but from the way he squeezes his eyes shut, as if fighting back tears, you can tell that he knows he's holding onto a lifeline. "It's all so confusing..... But the way he said, 'you made a stranger welcome.' It was like he knows that I'm not ... that he knows I'm different, too. You're right. Maybe he's not here to spy on me -- on us. Maybe ... maybe he was just wishing that he had had a family ... like you."  
  
A maudlin Clark is a terrible thing to watch. Scene shift, to Jones, still standing out under the stars. He looks back at the house -- we don't need any more special effects to know that he's been telepathically eavesdropping -- and then up at the stars. For a long, long time.  
  
New scene, the next day, enter the bad guys. (I mean, what would all our heroes do, if not for the bad guys? Well, there's earthquakes and hurricanes and fires and such, but that's so, duh, been there and done that....) Two not-extremely-bright-looking types in any old car you care to insert, since they've stolen it, driving in past the "Meteor Capital of the World" sign.  
  
First dimwit: "So, what d'ya think we should hit in this one-horse town? The bank?"  
  
Second dimwit: "Nah, they probably do everything by computers. And they got safes. Why risk our necks for a couple hundred bucks, tops?" (This, by the way, establishes them as smarter than half the other smash-and-run thieves on the road. If you haven't heard the stories about the morons who tried to haul away an ATM with their pickup truck, well....)  
  
First dimwit: "So what then, smart guy? The bleeping grocery store? For what, cat food?"  
  
Second dimwit: "Nah, they probably do everything by credit. I tell ya, I seen these blinky-blank towns. Ain't nobody got any money. 'Cept the Luthors, of course, and I'd rather try to hit Fort Knox. His guys play mean and dirty. Nah, we need a cash place. Like a lotto joint."  
  
First dimwit: "They don't got lotto in this state, dork. They probably don't even got bingo."  
  
Second dimwit: "They got repo men, don't they? Gotta be a cash place here somewhere."  
  
First dimwit, snickering: "Hey, yeah, a repo joint. That way we can even lift another car after trashing this one. That's tit for tat, ain't it? After they repoed mine. Revenge, right?"  
  
Second dimwit, with a disgusted look: "Revenge for what, asshole? I want revenge on my old boss, yeah, but fat chance. This is just makin' a livin'." Snorts. "But we do get a little payback outta usin' Luthor's own fertilizer to blow a hole in somethin' in his town. Too bad we can't get to his own fancy house and fancy factories. If the Luthors was into oil wells, I'd blow one up for no money at all. Make him find out what it's like to sweat for a change."  
  
First dimwit, looking into a back seat packed with wet brown crud that might be fertilizer saturated with oil: "You sure you got the mix right? Chem class was a long time ago."  
  
Second dimwit, annoyed: "Yeah, I'm sure. It's on the damn internet, already. The only hard part was making the det cord. Everything else was at, like, on the shelf at the *^#! toy store."  
  
First dimwit, settling back, also annoyed: "So, what about all those stupid meteorites we spent two days collecting? Do we wanna stash 'em somewhere and come back for 'em?"  
  
Second dimwit, disgusted: "What the freak for? NASA just laughed in our face. They paid a million-odd bucks for some rock was supposed to be from Mars, 'cause it had some kinda round bumps in it, and now they're not interested any more. Who knew the damn rocks was scattered all over the place like shells on a damn beach?" (Which does beg the question of how Clark survived even his first year in the locality.) "Nah, just leave 'em in the trunk."  
  
First dimwit: "Yeah, right. Travel light." Scowling and folding his arms. "Get enough to move on and then do it all over again. You know what? I'm getting' real tired of this @#$!."  
  
And if that hasn't given you a clue as to what's about to happen, then just hang in there....  
  
Scene: Clark and Jones, walking along the street, both carrying a bag of supplies, engaged in an almost father-to-son conversation. Jones, for once, is not quite comfortable in the role. He knows too much, and dares reveal -- as yet -- so very little. He knows that Clark knows some of it, but Clark doesn't know that he knows that Clark knows, or what.... Never mind.  
  
Jones, lightly teasing: "And nobody razzes you for doing the weekly shopping?"  
  
Clark, shrugging it off (and not very comfortable himself, knowing at least part of what Jones is keeping secret, and wondering what Jones knows about him, or if Jones knows that he knows.... Never mind): "Not more than once, they don't." Jones holds his expression very still -- that sounds all too much like a threat, from someone who can kill with a look -- long enough for Clark to clarify, with his innocent grin: "Or I invite them to come out and spend a day doing farm chores with me. Who wouldn't rather go shopping than shovel ... um, hay?"  
  
Jones throws his head back in appreciative laughter. "I see your point. And I see you have a talent for reasoning and persuasion, too. That's partly what Roosevelt meant by 'speak softly and carry a big stick, you will go far'. It wasn't at all about backing up your arguments with force -- it was about knowing what you were talking about. You have to be able to bluff when necessary, of course, but mostly you must be willing to stand firm in your convictions."  
  
Clark, with an amused side glance: "Do you always have a historical quote for everything?"  
  
Jones claps him on the shoulder, hard enough for Clark to respond to it, and to grin openly. "If you're going to steal from someone, son, steal from the best. If someone has already said what you want to say, why strain your brain trying to reinvent the wheel? Just don't use the sound bite version, or misquote. It makes you look foolish when someone calls you on it."  
  
"Huh." Clark closes his eyes, head back, searching his near-perfect memory. "Since we're on Roosevelt, how about, 'I never keep boys waiting. It's a hard trial for a boy to wait.' " With a sly and triumphant look at Jones: "Are you going to keep me waiting, Mr. Jones?"  
  
The Martian Manhunter is caught off-guard for maybe the third time in his entire life. "By all the names of all the stars, you certainly suckered me into that one. I begin to wonder if there's anything that anyone can still teach you, except by experience, Kal-El. Clark."  
  
Clark's hyper-acute hearing has not yet fully developed -- imagine what it would be like to be a teenager unable to NOT hear everything around him! -- but he could hardly miss that (intentional?) slip. Stopping in mid-step, inhumanly intense: "What did you just call me?"  
  
Jones meets his eyes, keeping him at arm's length -- no closer, but no further -- wishing, sad that he can't give the young man what he really wants, happy that the boy trusts him enough to at least ask. "Kal-El? Sorry, slip of the tongue. It means 'Star Child' in one of the old languages. Look it up. When I said "names of all the stars," it automatically associated in my head to your hobby of star-gazing. 'Clark' just sort of became 'Kal' out of carelessness."  
  
Clark, cued by his superhuman senses at the subconscious level, isn't buying it. (He can't exactly use them as a lie detector on Jones' pulse and sweat, because Jones doesn't exactly HAVE a pulse and sweat.) "'Kal' for 'Clark'? Maybe. But what you said was 'Kal-El.' That's not something that just rolls off your tongue, you know?" Stopping Jones by the arm, not at full force, but with the impression that he might use it, if he gets frustrated enough. "Mr. Jones. Level with me." Suddenly realizing what he's doing, and that he could have crushed a human's bones like that, he drops his hand and wilts, apologetic. "Please."  
  
Jones is enormously impressed with young Clark's restraint, and shows it. He's no longer worried at all about having to oppose the Kryptonian. The question he's facing now is much harder, even for a telepath -- just what to say, and how. Softly: "Clark. How old were you when your dad first told you --" Clark's head snaps up, on fire with curiosity. Is he going to say IT? About the spaceship and everything? -- "Oh, the facts of life, as they say."  
  
Clark actually splutters, disappointment vying with embarrassment. "We have" (deliberate I-will-not-flinch emphasis here) "sex education in school. And I did grow up on a farm."  
  
Jones is merciless, though his face is kind. "And how old were you when you understood?"  
  
Clark looks away and fights down a blush. "I'm not sure I understand it all yet anyway."  
  
This time it's Jones who takes Clark's shoulders, in both hands -- and squeezes, just a little. J'onzz is not as strong as Clark, but he's waaaay out of the ballpark of what Clark is used to, and the astonishment -- and a certain amount of appreciation -- that races across Clark's face is a treat to behold. "But you will. And you know that. You know it will just take time."  
  
Clark's face is a real study in wistfulness, unwilling to accept, but trusting. "I guess so...."  
  
Jones is very nearly as wistful as Clark. "Then will you believe an old student when I tell you that everything else will become clear someday, too? That there are some things that you can only learn by living them? That it's worse to get only part of the lesson, or to try to take on too much too soon? There is no such thing as "just the facts" or "just the truth," without context. You have to learn each piece as it comes along, in its own way and time."  
  
Clark's searching stare is torn between belief -- wanting to be able to put himself into the hands of this person that he senses is more capable than he -- and impatience, the beginnings of knowing that no one will ever be stronger than he is. "Mr. Jones. I understand what you're saying. And I realize you're trying to -- protect me, somehow. But I can handle it." He looks away, steels himself, looks back with a level gaze. "Please don't play games with me. I'm already confused enough. I think you know something that I -- I need to know."  
  
Jones aims a beseeching look at the sky. "Take this cup away from me.... Oh, my young friend, if only I could put right all that I have done wrong. I would give anything never to have doubted you -- and not to have to cause you such turmoil now. But there are some things I simply cannot do for you. When you change the course of a river, you destroy all that it has built and nurtured, and you wash away all that should never have been in its path. If I were to force all the flood of knowledge into you now, it would do irreparable harm"  
  
Clark blinks at him in utter confusion, then manages a bemused smile. "Okay, we have officially gone beyond play-station two. Mr. Jones, who are you? WHAT are you?"  
  
" 'What' am I?" Jones gives Clark a severe look, but softened by his respect for the kid. "I would never have believed you capable of bigotry, whitebread." Clark reacts to that as if he'd been slapped, hurt and astonished. Jones, cringing inwardly at having to have to have said it, relents. "I told you, star-child. I'm a teacher. And a student. And a friend."  
  
Clark is visibly fighting back the impulse to scream in bafflement. "It's just that -- it's so hard, not knowing ... and now you're, like, I've got even more questions. It's like living in a mystery novel, and waiting for someone to turn the page. It drives me crazy sometimes."  
  
Jones ruffles Clark's hair and quickly stops himself. His own inclination to act as a father-figure to Clark would be every bit as dangerous as telling the teenager everything. "You're seventeen, son. Believe it or not, no matter how good you are at, eh, math, every seventeen-year-old, in the history of beings who lived to be seventeen, has felt exactly the same way."  
  
Clark laughs, not happily but not bitterly. For him to be compared to everyone else is actually enough of a comforting thought to distract him from all the other entanglements.  
  
Jones gives Clark a sympathetic look and begins to try to say something else, though he's clearly wondering where to go with this, when something intrudes on his constant wariness of the world around him. He looks around, puzzled. Clark catches it and peers around too, then starts suddenly as a car careens past them: "There's nobody driving that thing!"  
  
Jones realizes it at the same instant, his detective-trained senses recognizing far more than Clark's still-nascent x-ray vision: he sees the radio-control, the trunk and floors packed with primer and fuel, and the course along which the car is aiming, an instant's glance confirming the store in its path. He also sees the hazy green glow surrounding the car, and makes a crucial mistake by neglecting to mention that one extra fact, exclaiming only: "Explosives!"  
  
Clark shoots him a wild look, follows the trajectory of the car for himself, focuses through the wall of the targeted storefront, and sees: "There's people in there!" (Which would either be a pretty safe bet or a dead giveaway, had Jones been an ordinary detective.)  
  
Clark drops his package and kicks into high gear, intent on intercepting the car. Jones realizes one second too late what he's set in motion, and what he's failed to tell Clark. He drops his own package and sets out after Clark at very nearly the same speed. "Clark, NO!"  
  
Martians, even Manhunters, are not, quite, as fast as Kryptonians, and Clark has that full second or so head start. In slow motion, we see what no one on the scene will ever be aware of: Clark catching up to and putting himself in front of the car, bracing to stop it, or at least slow it down. The resolute set of his face tells us that he is readied for the explosion, and is prepared to do whatever he can to shield the mere mortals inside the building from it.  
  
The car hits Clark, an object far more immovable than the brick wall it was aimed at. Clark is forced back into the store wall, clothes tearing away, his taut expression of hard exertion, and the straining muscles in his arms, revealing enormous, but not insurmountable, effort. The explosion propagates mostly upward and out the rear of the car, partially diverted from its full forward expansion by the engine block, giving him one extra second to realize -- and for his triumph at his achievement to turn to wide-eyed terror -- that the fireball is green.  
  
The effect is rather like millions of microscopic needles slicing through all the cells in his body. Shrieking nerves fire a bone-disclocating convulsion, the torsioning spasm ripping through every muscle. Clark is flung up and away like a rag doll, less by the blast than by the wrenching force of his own reaction, head thrown back and face horribly contorted in a voiceless scream. Consciousness, mercifully, fades to gone before he even hits the ground.  
  
Jones arrives in the next quarter of a second, in time to shield him from the full force of the blast. Jones flinches and fall to his hands and knees over Clark -- Martians are plenty tough enough to take shockwaves, but not invulnerable to fire -- and sort of spreads out, thinning, into an opaque covering, that fades from view as the dust settles and time returns to normal speed. (There's never been any indication that J'onzz can make others invisible, too, but the same effect can be achieved by his telepathic redirection of any observers, so there.)  
  
Jones reappears on the front steps of the Kent house, an unconscious and sickly green Clark limp in his arms. (One of the reasons why Jones has to be a fairly strong person -- Clark is a big kid.) Telepathic alarm accompanies his urgent calling: "Mrs. Kent! Martha!"  
  
Martha opens the door, her questioning concern turning to serious confusion then to alarm as she looks from Jones to Clark. She is, after all, used to seeing her adopted son impervious to almost everything. "What? John, what happened to Clark?"  
  
Jones, speaking rapidly but levelly, like a trained emergency worker: "Some damn fools sent a car packed with explosives into the collection agency. Clark took the brunt of the blast when he stopped the car. For some reason they had a trunk load of meteor rocks -- the rocks shattered in the impact and vaporized in the fire; he's got that radioactive dust all over him."   
  
Martha's expression hits full-blown panic at the words "meteor rocks" -- she whirls to the cell phone, with a strangled "Dear God," and is punching numbers even as Jones continues.  
  
"We need to get him out of these contaminated clothes and pressure-wash his skin, and clear out his lungs -- have you got an air compressor?" Automatically taking the answer from her mind in his haste: "Never mind, I'll get it while you and your husband scrub him down."   
  
Martha alternates her attention between yelling into the phone ("Jonathan, get back here, hurry!"), and a pause of perplexity at what Jones just said: "...An air compressor?"  
  
Jones, over his shoulder as he carries Clark into the house: "He hasn't learned breath control yet, has he? If that stuff is absorbed from his lungs into his bloodstream, it will kill him."  
  
Jones sets Clark down in the tub and rips what's left of his shirt off (put tongues back in your mouths; no x-rated scenes here) just as Jonathan storms through the door. "What the hell is going on here? Oh my god, Clark." Jonathan kneels and takes over as Jones steps back.  
  
Jones: "His clothes are impregnated with meteor rock dust, and it's all through his hair and embedded in his skin. Mine too. We'll have to contain the wash water, or it could get into the drinking supply around here." Martha and Jonathan both react badly to that idea. "Don't let the water drain out until I can get a drum -- just get it off him and get him away from it."  
  
Jones leaves in a hurry, and Jonathan and Martha get on with the not-easy task -- ask any nurse -- of supporting and cleaning a nearly full-grown human who is out cold. At first they're too busy to think about the implications of what Jones has revealed that he knows, but it soon dawns on both of them, and they exchange grimly worried trepidation as they work.  
  
Martha: "He knows how the meteor rocks affect Clark. He knows about Clark's strength -- he saw him stop a car. What else does he know? What are we going to do, Jonathan?"  
  
Jonathan: "I don't know, Martha." An angry glare in Jones' general direction. "We'll worry about that later. Clark is our priority right now." To himself, scared: "I just don't know."  
  
Back to Clark in the tub, wet and shirtless (DOWN, y'all!) but no longer green, as he stirs feebly and opens his eyes. Unfocused (people in a coma show very little sentience, much less personality) at first, he gradually regains the appearance of awareness. The blurred mass of colors as seen through his eyes slowly resolves into Jonathan and Martha. He blinks vaguely, manages to lift a hand towards them, his slack lips trying to form words. ("Mom? Dad?") He still can't muster breath enough to put sound into it, but the joyous relief on both parents' faces inspires a small return smile from him before he passes out again.  
  
Jones reappears behind them in the doorway, carrying a small air compressor, but hesitates at intruding on the family tableau in front of him. The telepathic Manhunter is not just witness to, but involuntarily made a participant in, a depth of emotion so pure and powerful it nearly overwhelms his defenses. His practiced cool mask is stripped of its normal chameleon cynicism, his own feelings plain to see: Pain for the loss of his own family, sorrow for the impossibility of ever again being together with them the way Jonathan and Martha are holding Clark, happiness for their love -- and a deep, profound relief at the safe sanctuary and caring upbringing the superhumanly dangerous alien has found, so luckily for the entire world. He swallows and blinks rapidly, shakes his head a little, as if to clear away tears.  
  
He sets the compressor on the floor with an unnecessarily loud clang. "Get him outside and pump air into him, as much as he can stand. Forced artificial respiration. Coughing will help get the dust out." He turns away, hunched, voice oddly muffled. "I ... have to change."  
  
Jonathan and Martha exchange puzzled looks as Jonathan lifts Clark out (any old way he can, but remember that Clark is wet and slippery as well as insensate and naked). Jonathan: "It seems like he's trying to help, at least. But he sure looked strange there for a minute."  
  
CPR by stuffing an air hose down the throat of a naked unconscious Clark in order to force him to hack and gag is best left to your imagination, but don't try it on your human friends.  
  
Scene change: Clark is lying on the couch, hair still wet, one arm over his eyes and the other resting on his stomach, looking like, well, like someone who's been poisoned, and badly hurt. (This business of his being fine again as soon as he gets out of range of hard radiation and its attendant bio-specific chemical poisoning is nonsense, bad science, as erroneous as believing you can rely on a dangerously toxic commodity like oil for an industrial civilization's entire long-term energy needs without paying the whole cradle-to-grave price in land and air and water pollution. I object to entertainment media using bad or just plain flat wrong science, because it causes brain damage in people who are already too stupid to be entitled to any opinions, and who start to believe that nothing has long-term or permanent consequences.)   
  
(The true danger in anything that doesn't kill you on contact lies in its long term effects. Radiation damage and biological or chemical toxins takes time to recover from, even assuming they're not the kind of persistent accumulants, the carcinogens and mutagens, that you never do completely recover from. Ask anyone who has ever undergone chemotherapy and radiation treatment, and if you're lucky enough to not know any victims of cancer, ask anyone who has ever had food poisoning or a stomach virus. Or a really bad sunburn.)  
  
Martha approaches quietly, still worried of course, but under control. She brushes back his hair carefully. Parents tend to think of their children as fragile, even when that child can pick up a tractor. "Clark? Can I get you something? Maybe some water?"  
  
Clark's response is slurred and exhausted -- it's all he can do to breathe, much less speak. "No thanks, mom." His reserves are too spent to care about anything else; he's only aware of the debilitation and slow hard process of recovery, but at least the hellish pain is over with. Almost voiceless: "Not sure I could keep anything down right now. Just need to rest."  
  
Jones enters the room, also still wet and in a change of clothes, meets Martha's eyes. A quiet chord of telepathic music here as he reassures her. He crosses to Clark and touches him lightly on the forehead, changing the tone of the telepathic music a little -- deeper, more suited to mental communication between superhuman equals. Sympathetically: "You'll get your strength back faster if you sit out in the sun. Think of it as recharging your body, as if it were a solar-powered battery." This, of course, is something that the Kents don't even know about yet, and earns Jones a suspicious look from Martha -- and from Clark, who suddenly opens his eyes wide in curious realization that he must be feeling better, to be suspicious.  
  
Clark, propping himself up with an effort -- obviously still not up to par, though much less ill, and blinking in confused self-examination at his improvement: "How'd you do that?"  
  
Jones' familiar not-what-I-seem smile tells us how, but all he says is "Just realigned your energy fields a little. Old Indian trick. You familiar with chi?" He holds out a hand and helps Clark, unsteady but no longer prostrate, to stand. "Concentrate on your core. Work outward from your center, like following the lines of an electro-magnetic field. Holding a steady pattern in mind helps control the dizziness and disorientation." Jones keeps his tone quite elaborately casual. "You should study biofeedback, too. It won't stop the pain, not with the kind of damage that radiation does to you, but mastering the disciplines can keep pain from crippling you and leaving you helpless at a bad time. At least for a little while."  
  
Clark nearly loses his balance again with astonishment. "How did you know about??" A fast exchange of uncertain looks with Martha. "I mean, what are you talking about?"  
  
Martha is clearly biting her tongue -- Clark was non compos mentis when Jones proved to be in on the family secret, but she's afraid that cluing Clark in might give away whatever small thing Jones doesn't already know. (As if. Jones has, after all, forged full link with the minds of everyone on his planet.) Jones gives her a tolerant smile, but while he's still considering what else to say himself, Jonathan Kent appears in the doorway to the outside, stern-faced, silencing Clark with a glance. "Mr. Jones, I need to speak with you for a minute."  
  
Jones, acquiescing easily: "Of course." He props a seriously disconcerted Clark up with one arm and follows Jonathan out onto the porch, where Clark, worn out by the exertion, decides to forego any questions in favor of dropping gratefully onto the steps, face turned to the sun.   
  
Jonathan glares at Jones in clear demand that Jones leave Clark and come with him. Jones smiles down at Clark and saunters -- that's the only word for it -- after Jonathan, out of Clark's earshot. In fact, when Jonathan stops, Jones glances back at the resting superchild and shakes his head, gesturing Jonathan to move on with him further and around the corner.  
  
Jonathan, bracing himself for confrontation, but unyielding: "Not that I'm not grateful -- you did save Clark's life -- but I have to ask you, Mr. Jones, what exactly is it that you know about Clark? And how did you find out whatever it is that you think you know?"  
  
Jones looks a little amused at Jonathan's syntax, a little sad at being pushed away at arm's length again -- that "mister" Jones. "You do believe that I don't want Clark hurt, any more than you do." Jonathan nods, reluctantly conceding that. "As for what I know?" He turns to the sky, seeing it the way an astronomer would see it, with longing familiarity. "I know that his abilities now are only the first manifestations of how powerful he can become. I know who his biological parents were -- who his people were." Jonathan's jaw literally falls, and he staggers back to lean heavily against whatever is closest. "I know where he comes from -- which star system, which planet -- and what happened to it. Those meteors are all that's left of the world where he was conceived, Mr. Kent. The whole planet was destroyed."  
  
Jonathan, faintly: "Dear god." Swallowing, forcing himself: "Did you tell Clark?"  
  
Jones, astonished: "As you would say, good lord, no. Think like a parent, Jonathan. All teenagers feel alienated, unsure of themselves and their futures and how they'll fit in. Clark has good reason to feel more different and lost than most. How do you think it would hit him to find out that he's not only one of a kind, but the last of his whole species? That he never will fit in, with anyone, ever? I don't know of any teenager who could handle that."  
  
Jonathan does think like a parent, and straightens up, shouldering it. "Of course. You're right." Wistfully: "But we always did wonder if we would ever be able to answer those questions. When will it be safe to tell him? And -- what do we tell him, and how?"  
  
Jones' characteristic smile: "He'll find out, when it's time. His spaceship is keyed to his biology. It will give him bits and pieces as he goes along and gets more sure of himself."  
  
Jonathan looks uncomfortable. "Spaceship...? What are you -- uh -- well, I guess I'm not surprised you know about that. But I'm afraid we lost a piece of it. The octagonal key."  
  
Jones looks surprised. "The octagon?" He shrugs. "That's not a key, it's just a -- well, you might call it a guidance activation microchip. It controls certain automatic power systems. Unless you're planning to try to fly the ship again, or back-track its navigation path, it's not important to the recordings. And don't worry about anyone else figuring it out. It'll be decades at least before your computers will even be able to access it, much less decode it."  
  
Jonathan raises an eyebrow. " 'Your' computers? What exactly does that mean? Which reminds me -- you never did tell me just how it is that you -- claim to -- know all this."  
  
Jones looks at the sky again, smiling. "Considering what an awesome secret you've kept all these years, I see no harm in giving away one more." He meets Jonathan's eyes, and, in the major politically correct scene of the episode, morphs (deliberate shock value) into his true native form -- the pointy headed or round-headed one, whichever you want, but either way, clearly not human -- dark forest green with solid red glowing eyes, hard high cheekbones, and a gargantuan brow shielding the powerful brain. The suspenders become the crossed scarlet blazon and gold devices of the Martian Elite police force, the Manhunters.   
  
"You see, I'm not exactly from around here, either." And, as Jonathan staggers backward wide-eyed again, the telepathic music slips in, and Jones adds softly: "Besides, I can't risk you accidentally giving anything away to Clark prematurely." His fingers make a gentle brushing motion across Jonathan's forehead. "You'll remember again -- when it's time."  
  
Jonathan's expression slowly relaxes, becomes friendly, even conspiratorial, leaving us to wonder just how much Jones has permitted him to remember. He winks. "So. You don't think we can do anything to curb Clark's tendency to jump in and try to save the day, eh?"  
  
Jones chuckles and claps him on the back. "I should hope not. Would you have tried to keep Beethoven away from a piano? Asimov away from books? Come on, Jonathan, when you have a prodigy on your hands, the last thing you dare do is try to stifle their talents." His expression suddenly becomes troubled. "Think how many dictators and criminals were simply frustrated artists -- how many single-minded misfits could have become single-minded scientists and engineers instead of psychopathic thieves and murderers."  
  
Jones turns to Jonathan in deadly seriousness, and in the background, we get a hint of the reason why, as Lex drives up and heads over to visit with Clark. "Great responsibility, like great power, can be either a great gift, or a terrible curse, Jonathan. You and Martha know that better than just about anyone. You're the best people Clark could have asked for. I only wish all children could have such an uncompromisingly honest upbringing." And his look, with Jonathan's gaze following, at Lex Luthor, tells us exactly what he means.  
  
If you want to be blatant about it, Jones or Kent could be heard to mutter, behind the picture, "Imagine what Clark would be like if he had been found by Lionel that day?."  
  
Scene change: Clark looks up from his pure enjoyment of solar rays when Lex's shadow falls on him. Clark looks like a lazy cat in the sun: not in the mood to pick up any tractors just yet, but content where he is and much healthier. "Hi, Lex. What brings you out here?"  
  
Lex gives him that tilted considering look that tells us that a great deal more goes on behind Lex's bland expression than we could guess -- or probably want to know. "I'd heard you were caught in that attack downtown. I wanted to make sure you were all right."  
  
Clark shrugs, embarrassed, evasive. "I was, I just happened to be in the area. I ? I don't remember much. I must have just come right back home. Scared, I guess."  
  
The narrowing of Lex's eyes tells us that he doesn't believe one single word of it. "Clark Kent, scared? That's one for the record books."  
  
Clark meets Lex's eyes levelly, honestly. "Everyone is scared sometimes, Lex."  
  
"Of course." Lex's smile is not, quite, evil. Very quietly: "But of what, I wonder?"  
  
Jonathan and Jones come up behind him, with equally foreboding expressions -- Jonathan because of his past dealings with the Luthors, Jones because of what he fears coming in the future. Even his light telepathic once-over of young Lex is clearly unsettling to him.  
  
Jonathan, belligerence barely controlled: "Can we do something for you, Lex?"  
  
Lex, mildly: "I was just checking on Clark. I know you don't much approve, Mr. Kent, but Clark and I are friends. He did save my life once. I wanted to make sure he was okay."  
  
We can almost see the light bulb go on over Jones' head, as this gives him a possible angle of approach to Lex. J'onzz knows he doesn't stand much of a chance of turning this problem around, but he has to try. Cocking his head slightly, a mild but exaggerated challenge: "Purely out of altruism, young man? Friendship nurtures the spirit, and true concern for your friends is a strength unto itself. But obligation breeds resentment, and corrodes the soul."  
  
Lex, put unexpectedly on the defensive, and not liking it: "I never feel obligated -- " a stress just short of sarcastic -- "to anyone, Mr. Jones. It's one of the advantages of being me." But he avoids Jones' thoughtful gaze, looking over -- enviously? -- at Clark.  
  
Jones' regard softens, telling Lex as clearly as words that he understands, and sympathizes with, Lex's dual familial and cultural alienation. The nonhuman lawgiver truly likes, and wishes he could be closer to, both of the extraordinarily talented youngsters, and not just to be able to guide their latent abilities. But all adults, and all adult civilizations, know that imposing their will by force on the less mature ones will only result in rebellion, and a stunting of potential. The high-powered telepaths of the Manhunters, with their ability to control minds, are more strict about following a non-interference code than most.  
  
Jones makes a small, deliberate movement, as if to put his hand on Lex's shoulder, which Lex, caught off-guard, almost permits, until his ingrained habits turn his expression cool.   
  
Jones: "An advantage you could not give away, even if you wanted to? You might be surprised at how many other people understand that." Which, of course, can be taken so many ways that even Jonathan and Lex both give him the same startled look.  
  
Clark turns to Jones, still lazily: "Lex has done a lot of good things for this town. I wish people would remember that, instead of being so quick to think the worst." Leaning back, closing his eyes in relaxation, he sighs and murmurs to himself: "This does feel good."  
  
Jones, with a fatherly-fond smile: "It's not as if you were in danger of getting sunburned."  
  
Lex, interest piqued, concealing a sharp curiosity: "Why do you say that, Mr. Jones?"  
  
Jones, tolerantly, matching Lex's mildness: "Smallville isn't exactly tropical, is it?"  
  
Jonathan gives Jones an odd look -- just how much does he remember? -- then moves past Clark, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Feel up to -- uh -- " Covering quickly, especially in front of Lex -- "Would you like some of your mom's homemade juice? Lots of vitamins." Belatedly, with forced politeness: "How about you, Lex? John?"  
  
Clark smiles up at him, that heartbreakingly vulnerable openness. "That'd be great, dad." Jones picks up immediately, a nonchalant assist: "Your hospitality is appreciated, sir."  
  
Jonathan and Lex lock eyes for a second, measuring: the strength of the farmer and land versus the power of money and privilege, an old and direct challenge. Lex, deliberately, gives way first, with his not-quite-evil smile. "Thank you, Mr. Kent. Yes, I would."  
  
Jonathan goes into the house, and Clark looks back and forth between him, Lex, and Jones, a small puzzled frown at the lingering tension between them. He shrugs and settles back, closing his eyes again. Like all good peacemakers, he wishes his friends and family would get along, but it's too much work for his tired mind to worry about such things right now.  
  
Lex looks down at him, considering. Clark in less-than-perfect health is not something he sees very often. He's torn between actual concern and calculating curiosity, a desire to probe into Clark's peculiarities while the opportunity of catching him off guard has presented itself.   
  
Jones, however, is not off guard. He taps Lex on the arm and beckons him back towards Lex's car, with a look that permits of no argument. Lex, bemused, decides to make it look like he's choosing to follow, rather than risking being further intimidated by a direct order.  
  
Lex, covering uncertainty with brashness: "Something I can do for you , Mr. Jones?"  
  
Jones tilts his head downward, slightly away from Lex, the gesture of an alpha male being careful not to antagonize a powerful youngster into feeling that he's in a subordinate role. Jones knows as well as we do just how fragile Lex's good intentions are, and how delicately balanced the struggle in his mind between wanting to do well and wanting to seize the day.   
  
With all the telepathic tact at his command: "You know, you're lucky to have been in just this place at just this time. Smallville -- and Clark -- may be just what you needed."  
  
Lex, coolly: "That's an interesting take on my personal life, Mr. Jones. What prompts you to make such an observation? Assuming that I would find any value in it."  
  
Jones turns the full force of his personality on Lex then, who, predictably, steps back before he can quite catch himself. Jones is as serious and forceful as he can be, without actually invading the defensive young man's mind. "Your father trained you well for power, Alexander. But are you prepared for the responsibility that comes with it? You've been given a thorough grounding in Machiavelli and Sun Tzu. You have not, perhaps, paid quite as much attention to Jefferson and Paine as would be properly instructive."  
  
Lex is, to put it mildly, startled. "You seem to know rather a lot about me."  
  
Jones stares into Lex's eyes, and permits himself a look of satisfaction when Lex does not back down. "I have known great men before, young Luthor. And I have know men who pretended to greatness, whose pretensions foundered and broke -- with disastrous results for everyone -- when they proved that they could not lead, but only give orders. You showed that you have the potential for command when you brought the community together to buy the factory from your father. You have the experience, and the business sense, but what drives your will?" Slowly, strongly: "Do you truly understand the need for cooperation and interdependence that allows society to function? Or is it only about money, and power?"  
  
Lex, with a faint sneer: "Are you advocating a libertarian socialism, Mr. Jones? My family believes in the success of the capitalist system, as you might have guessed."  
  
Jones' lip quirks, unimpressed with Lex's cynicism, so much less practiced than his own. "Capitalism unchecked is a far worse system than socialism, or even communism, young heir. Greed and egotism will be the ultimate downfall of any civilization, regardless of the names by which they call their sociopathy. Surely you know better than to judge an economic practice by the legislative policies grafted onto it -- or the men who abuse it."  
  
Lex, with a hint of anger: "I'm not some gullible uneducated talk-show listener, Mr. Jones."  
  
Jones raises an eyebrow, gently but intentionally provoking Lex further: "Indeed? There is an old saying: 'Men who look upon themselves born to reign, and others to obey, soon grow insolent. Selected from the rest of mankind, their minds are early poisoned by importance; and the world they act in differs so materially from the world at Large, that they have but little opportunity of knowing its true interests'. Would you describe your father that way?"  
  
Lex smiles, unpleasantly. "Suppose I don't even agree with it?"  
  
Jones shrugs, giving Lex a level look. "Suppose Rome never fell? Reality tends not to care what we believe, despite the opinions of those talk show listeners you mentioned. 'Let them call me rebel, and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul by swearing allegiance to one whose character is that of a sottish, stupid, stubborn, worthless, brutish man...' Jonathan Kent will spend the rest of his life living crop to crop, bill to bill, but no one will ever call him a whore. No matter what you accomplish in life, Alexander, how would you prefer history to judge you?"  
  
Lex, still defensive, but more pleasantly, if a bit insolently: " 'A regard for reputation and the judgment of the world may sometimes be felt where conscience is dormant'."   
  
Jones chuckles broadly. "Ah, you do know your Jefferson, when it interests you. But I would say, rather, "If pride of character be of worth at any time, it is when it disarms the efforts of malice." I do not believe your conscience is dormant -- you are honorable enough to count Clark, for all his, hm, socio-economic differences from you, as a friend, and not just because he pulled you out of a car crash. After all, many people have had that experience."   
  
Lex gives him a sharp look -- does Jones mean many people have been pulled out of car crashes, or many people have been rescued by Clark? Lex has his own suspicions there.  
  
Jones sees, smiles, and deliberately ignores, Lex's obvious curiosity. "You have been both gifted and cursed to live in interesting times, Lex." And before Lex, startled at the use of his nickname, can pull away, Jones actually does put a hand firmly on his shoulder, a gesture of friendship and respect for a could-be equal that he has not yet accorded even Clark. "Make the most of them, and you will accomplish great things. I would hate to see you founder and break in the long run, by taking the easy way out in the short." Foreboding: "You are not your father. You can honor him without becoming like him -- or becoming his victim."  
  
Lex, confused and determined not to show it: "What makes you think you would ever see that?" Eyes narrowed: "Or is that your way of saying you'll be keeping an eye on me?"  
  
Jones, shaking his head a little: "The whole world will be keeping an eye on you, Lex. Sometimes -- and you may find this hard to believe, but trust me, I know -- there will be temptations to use your power to cut through what seem to be frustrating but unimportant annoyances. One word of advice from someone who has been there and done that: Don't. There are no such things as actions without consequences. If you ever have doubts, if you ever need someone to bounce things off of, don't forget that you already have a friend -- one who has proven willing to lend an ear and a hand. Don't be afraid to confide in Clark."  
  
Lex gives him a long, considering look: "No offense, Mr. Jones, but as much as I like Clark, and even though I owe him my life, he is, as you say, just a small town farm boy. If I'm destined for those 'great things' you were talking about, then where would Clark fit in?"  
  
Jones, sternly: "That's bigotry, Mr. Luthor. Never underestimate someone just because of their upbringing, any more than you would because of their appearance. There is more to being someone of value than their schooling." Cuttingly: "Or their money."  
  
Lex, surprisingly, seems to acquiesce to the lecture. Then he slips it in, shrewdly: "Are you implying that there might be, shall we say, a little more to Clark than meets the eye?"  
  
Jones gives him an impassive smile. "I'm sure you'll find out, someday. I'm only saying -- don't waste resources. Friends are enormously more valuable than material wealth."  
  
Lex, still probingly, and a little sarcastic: "Is that the considered wisdom of experience?"  
  
Jones turns his full, intimidating attention on Lex again, the weight of sadness and experience of a very old stranger in a very alien land. Gently: "Yes, Lex. Believe me, it is. Some day, you might find that out for yourself." Abruptly, turning his attention back to the house: "It would be rude of us to continue this private conversation when Mr. Kent has so politely provided refreshments. And of course, no doubt you have business to attend to."  
  
Lex frankly goggles at this unsubtle dismissal, but he is, after all, well trained. "Of course."  
  
As they approach Jonathan and Clark, who is sipping carefully at a glass of juice, Jonathan looks defensive -- protective -- but Clark puts down his glass and climbs to his feet, leaning on a porch rail, weary but smiling. "Thanks for coming by, Lex. That was really thoughtful of you. I imagine things must be going crazy in town right now -- probably every news hound and official in the city is looking for you. As you can see, everything is fine here."  
  
Lex accepts the glass Jonathan holds out to him and takes a deep drink, his eyes flickering from Clark's face to Jones'. "Yes, it appears to be." Setting down the glass, he turns with a just-short-of-insolent offhand "Thanks for the juice, Mr. Kent" over his shoulder.  
  
Jonathan and Jones exchange troubled looks. Even Clark, still not quite able to give his full attention to anything beyond the ache in his body, is aware that Lex's attitude is not all that he could wish it would be. Neither Jonathan's hostile look after Lex's car, as it disappears into the distance, nor Jones' even darker but more professional stare in that direction, is as unhappy as Clark's uncertain, all-too-defenseless expression, telling us that even Clark is beginning to have his doubts about his friendship with the heir to Luthorcorp.  
  
Jones drains his own glass and takes both his and Luthor's inside to the sink. "And on that note, I ought to be getting on my way too. You folks have been good about putting up with an old wanderer's invasion of your home and privacy, but I know what they say about fish and visitors after three days. And you do have your own business to be getting back to."  
  
Jonathan starts to protest, worried, and Clark is concerned enough to push away from his post and follow them inside. "You're just going to -- go off again? I thought you -- "  
  
Jones holds up a hand, smiling, telepathic music in the background. "I've -- learned, all that I could possibly have asked for, here. And while everybody knows that gypsies tell tall tales under the stars, none of us are ever likely to be calling talk radio with stories about finding alien spaceships in a cornfield. That sounds too much like, hm, the tinfoil hat crowd."  
  
Jonathan raises his eyebrows (how much did J'onzz let him remember?), but Clark narrows his eyes. Sure, he can trade tit for tat in the blackmail market on knowing that Jones isn't human either, but he has a lot more to lose -- with his inexperience, and family and friends, and dangerous susceptibility to a fairly common rock -- than the solitary older man. A little challengingly: "You saying you only keep secrets because you think they're crazy?"  
  
Jones, quietly: "No, Clark." Meeting his eyes, trying to give the teenager the reassurance that he so desperately needs: "Because whatever secrets we each have, all of us, are our own to keep, so long as we hurt no one. You -- and I -- and your parents, and Lex, and Pete, and Chloe, and Lana, and even the farm cats, all have private lives that are no one else's business to pry into, unless what we or they do is a clear and present danger to someone else. That's your touchstone, as it is with all justice. That which does not harm others, is your own to cherish or to indulge in as you please. It's only that which threatens others that calls for the tougher judgment, of just what you can afford to do. When someone's privacy must be invaded, it must be for a good and legitimate reason." Jones blinks -- being this close to Clark, and with Clark's mind so open from residual weakness and emotional pain, is a constant burden on his psychic shields. He hauls his eyes away, over to Jonathan, with a carefully constructed sardonic look. "Do you want to quote Franklin to him, or shall I?"  
  
Jonathan looks perturbed at the depth of involvement of this man -- who is, after all, a stranger -- with his son. His voice shows his distrust. "You mean, "They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety"? Or," pointedly, if more under his breath, "Three can keep a secret, if two are dead"?"  
  
"No." Jones closes his eyes, stabbed by the distrust. "No. Never. Can you believe, simply -- Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade."?"  
  
Clark loses patience. "Would you stop that? I don't need old sayings! I need to know who I am! And what I am! And if that's being a bigot, then call me whatever you want!" Clark raises his fist in sheer frustration. "What does it matter what color is skin that can -- can stop a bullet?" Lack of strength and self-control take effect at the same time, Clark wilts. "I just ... I just don't want to be so lost and confused any more ... And so alone...."  
  
Jonathan and Jones meet each other's eyes, and it's hard to say which one is hit harder by the youngster's pain, the father or the telepath. Jones, dropping his eyes and clenching his jaw against the emotional blast, steps back and makes a small gesture forward to the Kents.  
  
Jonathan and Martha wrap their arms tightly around their alien son, very nearly holding him upright, their worry and dread from the past few hours expressing itself in a shared grip so desperately strong that it would leave serious bruises on a normal person. Clark holds on to them too -- carefully -- not quite crying, but nearly. For him, it's just been a very long day.  
  
Jones holds his breath, trembling, for a long minute, unable to speak, barely able to keep his mind separated from such a storm of feeling. He manages to back away, stumbling, and gets out the door, where he grips the porch railing -- coincidentally, the same place Clark was propped against earlier -- and turns his face to the sky, breathing deeply in concentration.  
  
Jones has almost managed to get his mental defenses back on line -- as if a thin shield adds itself to his skin -- when Clark appears in the doorway behind him. Clark moves forward, his face a grave study in someone trying to deal with a situation he's not ready for yet, but knows he will have to face anyway. Jonathan and Martha are watching from the doorway, but staying put, understanding that this is between their strange son and their strange visitor.  
  
Clark, clearing his throat: "Mr. Jones. I'm sorry about yelling like that. I'm just -- tired. I know it's no excuse for losing my temper. I hope you know I'm not -- usually like that."  
  
The Martian Manhunter bows his head, his breath catching. "Kal El. You nearly died today, and it was entirely my fault. I should be the one begging forgiveness from you, and I have no right to it. I made a mistake that someone of my age and experience should never have made, and you paid for it, dreadfully. You are the one who acted without hesitation. You proved yourself worthy beyond any questioning. I would quote you something about he to whom much has been given, but this is hardly the occasion, and you don't need that lesson."  
  
Clark straightens, feeling much better at the acceptance, not to mention the change in status and the compliments, even if much more confused. "Then ... will you do me one favor? Just answer maybe one question?" Meaningfully: "You called me Kal-el again, you know."  
  
Jones straightens up too, not like Clark, but like he's carrying a planet or two on his back. "Oh, Clark.... I wish I could. And yes, you've earned far more than I can give you. But if there's anything that terrifies me -- even more than what I've already done to you -- it's the thought of what telling you the wrong thing could do to you. Please ... please just believe that all your questions will be answered, in time." He turns to Clark, the same force in his eyes that made Lex step back, but Clark, being Clark, does not budge. Jones' eyes all but literally light up at the young man's determination. "I promise you that you are not here by accident, that you are not lost. And that you are not alone. Someday, there will be others, perhaps not like you, but with you -- and for you. But for now, even we who watch -- even the pantheon of immortals who are guardians of us all -- must also wait. For awhile."  
  
Clark, disappointed to the depths of his soul: "But there's so much you -- " And at Jones' remonstrating glance, meekly: "Well.... Maybe I can walk out with you for a little way?"  
  
Jones smiles broadly. "I'd like that ... young friend." And he glances back to wink broadly at Jonathan, who sags in relief. "Let me grab my backpack. I'm used to living out of a sack."  
  
Out past the farm fence, on the road, Clark at his most diffident: "I think you answered some of my questions, even if you didn't mean to." Looking away: "And I think I can wait for the rest. Maybe. I'll try. Immortal guardians, and visitors who watch ... It's a lot to think about. Even more than the lecture about truth and justice and freedom and rights and responsibility."  
  
Jones chuckles. "Seize the day, and tomorrow will take care of itself. I know it's hard. But I will leave you with one thing." Jones turns to Clark, hand on his shoulder, and in Clark's subtle straightening, his new look of maturity, we see that Clark has had his adult dreams awakened too. " 'It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.' You will be that man in the arena, Clark. And -- I promise you -- I will be there with you."  
  
The range of emotions, from fear to confusion to joy, that runs through Clark's expression, should leave us with food for thought for months to come. "I -- you -- we...? Will?"  
  
Jones locks eyes with Clark, telepathic music up to full. His mouth does not move. He can't tell Clark what his future is destined to hold, of course, but it wouldn't be fair not to give him a hint, something to help keep him going when the going gets tough. Voice over, and a telepathically transmitted back-and-forth vision of two planets, one a red sand-blown desert, one a stormy green cloud-swirled giant as it breaks apart: Yes, Star Child. WE will.  
  
J'onn J'onzz smiles and turns away, slinging his backpack over his shoulder in the practiced gesture of long familiarity. Behind him, Clark remembers to breathe again. He watches Jones shift into that free-swinging, on-the-road stride, for a long, jaw-unhinged minute. And then his eyes unfocus, and slowly, without conscious thought, he looks upward, to the stars.  
  
Scene: Jones, his long-legged stride down the road lending itself to the tune he's humming, hears a car in the distance and turns to peer back at it. His eyes widen as the telepathic music slips in, and he permits himself that anticipatory smile as he turns again and sticks his thumb out. The car, a fast sleek number, all but screeches to a stop just in front of him. The driver is a boy a little older than Clark, with a wild shock of light brown hair and a belligerent expression. The driver leans out the window. "Hey, old man. Where you headed to?"  
  
Jones, trying hard not to burst out laughing at this new project: "Oh, just down the road."  
  
Kid driver: "Well, we do that one. Hop on in, if you ain't afraid of a little speed."  
  
Jones, neutrally: "Speed has its place. So long as you have seat belts."  
  
Kid: "Man, I'm crazy, not stupid. Besides, I'm gonna fly fast jets. You gotta wear a full body harness in them things too. For all the good it'll do you when you plow in at 50 thou."  
  
Jones, neutrally: "You never know what will give you the edge." Holds out a hand as he climbs in. "Thanks for the ride. I'm John Jones."  
  
Kid: "Dude. You sure that's not an alias? Who the hell is named John Jones any more? At least you didn't say Smith. Hey. I'm Hal Jordan."  
  
Jones, visibly controlling himself -- he does, after all, have a trace of his mother's precognitive talent. "Pleased to meet you, Hal." As the car roars off into the sunset: "So, you're going to join the military? Be a test pilot? That's an honorable ambition."  
  
Hal, scornfully: "Dude. I am going to be the baddest, fastest flyboy ever."  
  
Jones, almost to himself. "Yes, I believe you are." Looking up to the sky again, to the stars: "But is that really the kind of hero we need....?  
  
(For those of you who don't know what happened to Hal Jordan, the second Green Lantern, who died twice and became the Specter, well -- look it up during the commercial break.)  
  
FADE TO STARFIELD 


End file.
